


Amen

by vibesandwonders



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Abusive John Winchester, Angst, Awesome Eileen Leahy, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), Castiel is Saved from the Empty (Supernatural), Coming Out, Dean Winchester is Bad at Feelings, Destiel - Freeform, Eventual Smut, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Fix-It, Fluff and Smut, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Post season/series 15x18, Post-Canon, Post-Episode: s15e18 Despair, Romance, Sam Winchester is So Done, Slow Burn, in this house we ignore the finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:08:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 52,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29908482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vibesandwonders/pseuds/vibesandwonders
Summary: TFW does NOT go gently into that good night...Finale fix-it fic: They get Cas back (of course), but he’s not quite right: feral angel hours, Dean Winchester (sorta) dealing with “feelings” and “emotions” and Sam is just mostly tired, Eileen is here for the drama.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 11
Kudos: 97





	1. November

**Author's Note:**

> Hey Ya'll,
> 
> I accidentally deleted my whole fic today cause I thought it was an old draft, so you get to see this again, and it'll probably be different because I didn't always update the changes and differences. So neat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Listening: 
> 
> Amen - Amber Run  
> Deuteronomy 2:10 - The Mountain Goats  
> Song in E - Julien Baker  
> Cringe - Matt Maeson  
> Love like Ghosts - Lord Huron  
> 

** November 07 **

_Needy, sloppy, messy Dean Winchester._

He shivers, the voice in his head is so familiar, the low gravelly tones weaved with sincerity and disdain.

"We need to talk Dean—"

Sam, of course, takes his silence as Dean’s standard bullheadedness.

"Save it Sammy." He swipes the coffee pot from behind his brother, and starts filling it with water, hoping a natural rhythm will make this argument go faster. "We both know what you're about to say. And we both know i'm gonna ignore you and do whatever the hell I want, so we might as well—"

"I know you're trying to save Cas." 

Dean freezes; the water spills over the edge of the glass pot. His shoulder square in bristly indignation, and pulls the pot out of the sink, he just wants to drink some _fucking_ coffee in peace.

Sam can't help but _worry_ because Dean is _free_ and at they're at _peace_ and he is somehow worse

"I know we barely talked about when— _how_ you lost him—" He can hear Sam already trying to be understanding, grasping at a topic that crowns the list of ' _Things Dean Winchester does not discuss period._ '

"I told you then, I don't want to talk about it. And, shocker, _still don't._ "

 _There it is._ Anger: the time-honored method by which his brother deals with things he's afraid of. Anger means he's hit the right nerve.

The coffee machine starts to rumble, silence stretching out like a cat in the low light of the kitchen.

"I just think, maybe you should be careful. Okay? You know I'm here for you, and Eileen and I, we wanna help Cas no matter too but... we need context to look into this. Look— I’m your brother, and you can trust me." and now back to the nerve. "Cause drinking your way to the bottom of every bottle in a 10 mile radius sure as hell isn't helping Cas—“

“— _oh_ you want context?" The rage in Dean is like fireworks, quick, fierce and blinding, he snorts nastily. "He wants _context,_ Well, he died for _me_ Sam." He slams the empty coffee cup into the sink, shoulders dip in weariness, head bowed.

"Okay?" Sam keeps his voice soft; casually fishing shattered porcelain out of the sink, Dean’s hand is starting to bleed onto the counter. "I mean, not to downplay things but like, he's done that before Dean, he's a pretty selfless guy-"

"No Sam. It's not— He... he said some things, he, he, he— he made this _deal_ with the Empty."

Sam nods absently, handing Dean another mug, and a paper towel, for his hand. “I mean you're not a Winchester unless you've made a dumbass deal with a higher power—"

He whirls, "Damnit Sammy. I'm not joking around," 

"Then be serious Dean and actually tell me all of it, cause all you've done is drink and hide in the damn bunker; I don't know to help you cause won't talk to me, without…” He inclines his head toward the smaller pieces of the coffee cup still in the sink, the bloodstained paper towel.

His brother closes his eyes, both hands on the edge of the sink, gripping so tight that his knuckles turn white. “I don't know what to say." He mutters, hand bleeding through the paper towel, less angry now.

Sam waits.

“Cas, he— he offered himself to the Empty, cause he guessed it would take Billie too."

"But not you.”

Dean hears the question in Sam's voice, the barely controlled curiosity.

"No, cause I was part of the deal. I was— it would come for him," His voice cracks very slightly, the words sound painful. The ancient coffee machine is hissing now, burbling and steaming, Sam remembers how it used to terrify Jack.

"Okay so what was the deal? Maybe there's something in how it works, maybe we can find a loophole—“

“—The deal was happiness, Sam." He interrupts, "He had to be _happy_ , like the happiest _fucking_ moment of his life."

"That's a start, we can ask Rowena—" Sam frowns. “Wait his happiness was _dying_ in the _bunker_?”

His entire being is pinched and tight, folding in on itself, fight or flight engaged.

“He told me he loved me Sam, _Big L dude_ , not just the world, not mankind, not Team _fucking_ Free Will, me."

Of _course_ loving him would kill his best friend _Of course it did._

He hates his life, he hates _their_ lives. Stupid fucking messed up bullshit from day one.

Sam blinks twice, "Oh."

And there it was, the immediate empathy and borderline pity, the look in Sam's face radiates understanding.

His skin crawls with the vulnerability of it.

He is _not_ a victim.

"You didn't know?"

" _What_?" Dean's voice has dropped to a low, dangerous register, one used when he is very prepared to do violence.

"I mean, okay, hear me out."Sam knows he’s pushed too far, the storm is inevitable now, "You _seriously,_ you didn't know?"

Dean Winchester's mouth falls open, snaps shut with an audible click, opens again and his lips curl back into a snarl; whatever he was about to say is thankfully interrupted by the coffeemaker's plaintive beep.

Sam exhales, prepared to continue; his brother has already turned, filling his new coffee mug.

The atmosphere of rage ebbs.

“Actually Sam, _what the hell_?" Dean whirls on him.

_There it is,_

Sam sidesteps just slightly further away. They haven’t come to blows in a long time but hell, if this was gonna be the moment, he wasn’t just gonna leave himself defenseless, he throws his hands up.

"Dean. The guy gave up heaven for you. After knowing you for like… 5 minutes.”

"For all of us." Dean counters, sulky. “For the whole world.”

"You don't even believe that." Sam knows he’s right, "All these years and you didn't suspect? Not once?"

Dean shakes his head like a dog, completely ignoring the question.

“Okay, supposing, _supposing_ , you’re right. He’s an Angel, they don't, they don't feel stuff that way." Dean stumbles over the words. “Like you know, _romance_ and shit."

“Mmhmm. We both know that Cas isn’t like other angels, even Chuck thought—“

“—So what?"Now the sullenness, yet another classic Dean defense mechanism, anger then petulance.

Sam makes a mental note for later, how it is beyond hilarious that an ageless cosmic being, watched countless millennia pass; met his asshole brother, and promptly fell in love.

“So what did you say? How'd you respond when he told you?"

The confidence, the pouty-ness, the anger, dissolves.

He pales.

"I just… didn't. Dude, there really wasn't time— and then he was gone."

Sam's head inclines, “ _Oh_. So you _don't_..." This is unexpected.

"Don't _what_?" He’s touched yet another nerve, this is like a human game of operation except the guy is actually Dean, and Dean is _always_ armed.

"Dean..."

"No. Say it. I don’t _what_?”

The younger Winchester struggles to find words, Dean needs this. More often than not Sam would find himself forcing Dean to process the endless shit they go through by provoking his brother until everything bubbles up past the surface. It's a 50/50 chance that Dean doesn't punch him in the face at some point during.

"I guess, I always just assumed you sorta, felt that way about him too. We all did." He scratches his ear.

" _We?_ "

"Well, yeah Dean, We. Everyone who knew you two saw that you were important to each other. And I mean, can you blame us? If Cas was in trouble there wasn’t anything that could stop you.”

"So?" His voice pettish, annoyed, "I'd do the same for you, Sam.

"Uh huh. Not quite the same. Look, I'm not trying to force you into anything but like... you really never considered it?" Sam waits,

His brother runs a hand through his shaggy hair, he’d stopped trimming it down since he left bunker without Cas, It was longer than Sam could remember his brother letting it grow since they were kids...

_Sam can hear his father screaming at Dean through the wall of whatever Hotel he’d dropped them in._

_Dad had said he’d be gone for three weeks._

_Then those three weeks turned into eight. Dean made spaghetti-o’s and told him he’d be okay with them staying here for a while._

_He'd smiled and said he made a friend. Dean hated friends._

_Sam hears the Impala’s engine first— then a shout filled with rage, Dean comes flying through the door like the hotel is on fire, his face white as a sheet._

_“Sam.” He says, voice gruff for a 15-year-old, an adult voice in a too young face, “Listen to me, you’re gonna take my walkman and you’re gonna put in ‘Tommy’—“_

_“Dean I don’t like—“_

_“Sam. Shut up and listen to me.” He’s angry, and scared; nobody scares Dean._

_His brother’s hands are cold, Sam goes quiet, seeing something in his brother’s eyes that scares him too. “I need you to go into the bathroom, put the damn tape in, get in the tub and turn it up as loud as you can. Okay? Can you do that for me? You promise Sammy?”_

_Sam nods, Dean looks relieved._

_“Go. Now.” Sam doesn’t understand, but he trusts Dean, so he heads into the bathroom without another word, closes the door, slides into the tub._

_The door slams so loud it makes the room shake. When Dad opened the door like that he always smelled like whiskey, Sam doesn’t turn the walkman on at first, he can hear Dean’s low voice, then Dad’s getting loud,_

_“—is what you do while I’m gone, huh?”_

_More murmurs._

_“— some kinda pervert? You just gonna let your hair grow out like a sissy? How you gonna be able to take care of your brother if you’re too busy acting like a—” He hears the slap. “Answer me boy!” Then the jangle of a belt being yanked from the loops._

_Sam remembers the promise, turns up the volume of the walkman, and presses down on Play._

“Sam, you and I both know what happens when either of us start thinking about being happy.”

Sam jerks back to the present, filing away that Dean had admitted that the thought of Castiel loving him made him happy.

“It’s different now, Jack is god, Chuck is gone, we’re free to do whatever we want. We can just hunt or, or live our lives, just for us." 

His brother is shaking his head frantically, thoughts turned inward; eyes sorrowful.“I don’t think I can Sammy.”

“Can't we try? Eileen is here, We can get Cas back, then no apocalypse, no world-saving, just… _think_ about it.” Sam forces a smile, and tries to will this new fragile hope into his brother. “Be a little selfish.”

* * *

** November 29 **

For three weeks Dean’s routine exclusively became a cycle of finding out ways to retrieve Cas (who isn't dead. just lost.), sneaking out to the liquor store like a naughty kid, getting too wasted to feel and somehow making it home.

_Rinse and repeat._

He had waited at least a full day after finishing Chuck before angrily praying and begging God, _Jack_ , whatever, to give him a way to save Cas, only to be furious and frustrated by his apparent silence.

 _Yes_ , he was aware that the kid was barely three human years old and now running… everything. But this was his dad. This was Cas.

So he rotated to spending hours on the phone, calling on every favor, every backwoods witch and conjure man he knew for a way to open some sort of door— The rare people who knew what the Empty was tended to have very little interest in ripping open a doorway to the final resting place of the Heavenly (and Hellish) Hosts— until there was no other option, no more numbers, no more books.

So, back to pleading to Jack— Screaming at the sky. Drinking.

Sam took his constant state of daydrunk and moping (he wasn't moping, how could he even think about dying when Cas was out there) as a personal vendetta and did his best to find the copious bottles of alcohol that miraculously hid themselves on a nightly basis. Moving all the guns in the bunker to a more central location that wasn’t Dean’s bedroom. 

_Touché motherfucker._

He let it go until he caught Sam walking out of his room carrying Cas' Angel blade.

They almost came to blows that night for the first time in a long time. It got so heated that Eileen finally stepped in, calming Sam down and insisting softly that Dean could be trusted with that weapon.

Sam and Eileen did their best to help him with his search, but being only recently reunited meant distractions.

Dean didn't have time for distractions, Cas was gone (not _fucking_ dead _). F_ or his part, he was just relieved that the bunker walls were thick. Sam turned red the first few times Dean made comment about the noise. Now he just lived in a perpetual state of headphones in unless he can see that both of them are clothed.

Dean didn’t begrudge his brother happiness. It only hurt late at night, alone in his bed, endlessly wondering what _sin_ — which bad decision or weak moment had cost him his happiness.

 _Cas died for this?_ _So you could fail him again?_

As Dean went through his nightly routine of praying, screaming, yelling to Jack, he found that could no longer keep it in. He curled into a ball and wept, unconsolable in his grief and the resounding silence of the heavens above him.

There was no justice to Castiel’s sacrifice.

There were no happy endings for Dean Winchester.

* * *

An unexpected storm strikes Lebanon that night, the whole bunker shakes with the sound of the storm.

Sam had just begun to doze before startling to a loud banging on the door. He reaches for Eileen, relieved to find her peacefully asleep. He lays, heart racing,hoping perhaps it was just a particularly aggressive roll of thunder.

More heavy knocks.

He makes his way into the hallway drowsily, Dean’s door already open and his brother is already in the hallway, gun in hand and looking, well, like he’d been crying.

Another repetitive boom on the door, Dean shrugs and hands Sam the pistol tucked into his boxers which he takes, grimacing.

Jack is there, outside the door, his hair slick with rain and grime, face young and ageless and uncharacteristically serious. A crumpled, human sized bundle held tightly in his arms. He pushed past them wordlessly, disappearing into Castiel's untouched room, leaving black sludgy footprints where he walked.

Dean follows, on his face the barest hope. He’s talking too loud, trying to stop Jack, to see who he holds, until he sees a flash of dirty, dark, hair peaking out of the corroded khaki bundle. Sam watches Jack stop his brother at the door, head shaking, before telling Sam quietly to wake Eileen.

* * *

"Dean,"

Jack tilts his head, voice deep and youthful, so similar that it makes Dean's heart clench and stutter. He ignores his adopted son, barely stopped by the the firm hand Jack has laid on his chest

“I heard you praying. There were… complications. That’s why I didn’t answer— it’s why it took so long for me to get to him. but, I need you to be prepared for what's inside.”

Dean hears him, pushes more frantically against the hand, and Sam steps up, adding another body to bar Dean’s way into the corner room of the bunker.

The older hunter rolls his eyes, rocking back on his heels, hands raised in surrender.

"Listen, I know ya'll are worried about me, but I'm fine, he was only in there, what, like a couple weeks? He's been through worse." His tone is forced and casual, but he knows Sam is watching the way his eyes dart to the doorway. It's been a few years but in a fair fight he's pretty sure he could get the upper hand.

Luckily, Eileen appears and derails the Winchester v. Winchester hallways prize fight. She eyes them curiously, sensing the tension, pulling the door shut behind her. Signs tersely to Sam, her eyes serious, eyebrows pinched. Sam responds instantly signing almost as quickly.

Dean catches a few words, Eileen has been teaching him in the mornings when Sam goes running. It’s a long con for him, to at some point be better at sign language than Sam.

But he can’t, he can’t keep up with what they’re saying now,

"What's—" He steps purposefully around Jack, keeping his hands raised to indicate that he isn’t going to push to try anything funny or make a break for the door.

"Sammy, What did she say? All I saw was quiet, um, _alone_ and _memory_?” Sam _what did she say_?” He doesn’t say the last word, it sticks heavy in his throat, pulse roaring in his ears

 _Lost_.

He feels like he can’t breathe, the bunker hall suddenly feels as tight as his chest. He bites down, trying not to lock his knees.

Maybe Jack wasn't completely wrong about him not being prepared for bad news. The warm whiskey feeling is already dwindling. Sam is staring at him with the look that says he’s trying to translate fact and truth into something that Dean won’t react, ( _as much)_ to.

"She said, that he's um... he's having trouble with light, and uh noise, stimulation..." He signing rapid-fire, lips mouthing the words, brow more and more scrunched, Sam snaps his head toward the celestial in the room. "Jack, is, is time different in the Empty?"

"I am not sure, but I can find out." The nephil-turned-godling closes his eyes. “Amara may know where to look.” He nods, pausing, sensing their concern. “Do not fear, she wishes to help create balance. Chuck is no longer writing her story. She is free, like we are. I will explain at a later time.”

The feeling in the room changes, The incandescent light bulbs in the bunker hum a little louder. Dean fights the panic rising in his chest, only growing worse. Yet another lingering side affect from his time in hell.

He taps his fingers on his thigh, focuses on breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth like Bobby taught him when he was a kid.

The corner of Jack’s mouth tilts up, his eyes, open now, are still faintly gold, proud that he is able to find the knowledge, for his family.

"The entity known as the Empty is not constrained by the boundaries of linear time."

A cold, trickle of fear claws up into Dean's heart. "Bud, how long was Cas in there?"

His eyes focused on Dean, and a thrum of energy passes through Dean’s body, Jack’s head tilts owlishly, looking like himself again, then toward the dark void of the Angel's room. "I am uncertain in exact time,” He states, his own eyes growing somber. “But it would have felt like an eternity.”

Sam turns to Dean, eyes serious.

"Dean you need to go sleep off the bottle of whiskey we both know you drank, and give him some time."

* * *

6 hours after the uncertain arrival, 2 hours after Eileen did her final check on Cas, 1 hour after Sam did his subtle _"prowl around the bunker and make sure Dean is in his room",_ Dean Winchester stalls outside the door to Castiel's room.

_ You changed me. _

All he can think about is the look in his eyes, the pure joy, the wall turning black dripping and gurgling.

_No no no._

He closes his eyes and breathes, in through the nose, out through the mouth. His whole body itches for a drink. Instead he clears his throat and steadies himself, cracks open the door and slips inside.

The smell of Cas’ room is overpowering, it's the smell of hospice wards and closed forgotten places where senseless, brutal, death had occurred.

Black goo is _everywhere_ , splattered and trickling from every surface, thick and oozing in the semi-darkness. A single, tiny lamp on its lowest setting the only light source, sits haphazardly in the corner.

The smell grows stronger, not quite the metallic tang of spilled blood. It’s deeper, more cloying and suffocating. He recognizes it then, his own room smells the same:

 _Despair_. 

The bed had been shoved against the wall, and there, curled away from the door and the light, unmoving and crusted with black sludge, was the former angel of the lord, _Castiel_.

* * *

He reaches out, placing a careful hand on the angel’s shoulder. Not the best way to handle trauma victims but he can’t help himself,

"Cas?" He murmurs, voice creaky and nervous, doing his best to keep it low and soothing, finally letting himself unclench for the first time since—

His world tilts, one moment he’s sitting on the edge of the angel's bed, the next second he’s pinned beneath an ageless eldritch horror, the light in the corner flickering rapidly, his blue eyes burn despite the darkness.

One hand curls around Dean’s throat.

It’s then that Dean realizes that the form on the bed was actually balled up blankets; that the angel must have been hiding in the corner waiting for someone to enter. He's half amused at how closely Cas paid attention to the Winchester Hunter tactics over the years.

"Who are you?"

Castiel's voice sounds scorched, unused. The lamp in the corner begins to blink off and on, the high hum increases. Dean watches as faint, fearsome edges of dark shapes extend past the angel’s shoulders, hanging off the edge of the bed, curling defensively around the bony man. They don’t look the way he remembered, light seems to be sucked into them, they’re tattered and frayed. His eyes start to burn—

“Why must you always wear _his_ face.” Cas seethes desperately, tightening his grip, forcing the entirety of Dean’s attention back to the eyes of feral angel straddling him.

"It's me— _dammit_ , Cas, Cas, it’s _Dean_.”

The Angel jerks away like Dean’s voice burns, falling back against the wall with a thud.

There isn’t anger in his face any more. It’s fear.

Cas pulls his knees to his chest, the lamp continuing to blink erratically, now slower, the shadowy shapes no longer visible.

"Hey buddy, hey,"

Dean is off the bed and next to Cas in a second, crouching down, taking in the matted hair, the emaciated face filthy with dried black ooze. The Angel’s eyes are afraid, but still predatory, a cornered but dangerous being.

 _Wrapped in the body of an accountant_.

"It's really me, we saved you... well, technically, Jack saved you, but I honestly probably drove him nuts until he beamed you out,I don't think i've ever prayed so much in my life..." He chuckles nervously.

Cas doesn’t move, his brow furrows, the lamplight slows to its normal, unblinking glow.

Dean continues, hoping that he doesn’t end up body slammed into the wall again.

“Uh, Then Jack showed up here looking like a dead cat, didn’t know god could look so soaked and miserable… though we should have known after how much the kid always hated baths.” He catches himself rambling, heart aching for a simpler time. He takes a risk, placing a hand on Cas’ knee.

The angel leans away, growing agitated at Dean’s closeness. His eyes close.

"You... you can't be here." The lamp begins humming again, loudly.

“Hey, hey, Listen to me Cas— Cas you’re in the bunker— _we're_ — you’re home."

Tears, bead at the corner of Cas' eyes,

"I can't do this, Please don't make me watch anymore. I don't want to see him anymore…” He isn’t talking to Dean, eyes lifted and wild. Cas whimpers, blue eyes suddenly open meeting Dean's purposefully for the first time. They’re nearly luminous, the lamp’s buzzing reaches a crescendo, bursting, causing both to flinch.

"You aren’t real. I don't want to see you.” He whispers into the dark.

Those words, from him after all this time, cut at Dean deeper than any knife. To his shame he panics, wavering, fighting the urge to run, to take a step back and hide from everything he was feeling— was trying to avoid feeling.

But none of that matters, cause Cas is here. He's home.

"Cas." He repeats, more firmly, his tone if nothing else, capturing the Angel's attention. "We are real. Remember?” Dean points aggressively between the two of them, offers a fierce smile in response to Cas' unreadable expression. " _You and me._ We got you out, cause we— cause I— cause you're family.” He winces.

Cas blinks slowly, looking more like himself, he reaches out and skeptically taps Dean on the shoulder, Dean smiles,

“See? 100% red-blooded American? Not so bad right?“

Cas’ breath quickens suddenly, his eyes unfocus, pale again, pressing back against the wall.

“How did I get here? Why was I in the Empty?”

Dean forces himself to stay still, he smiles, over-brightly,

“Ah, uh Cas, We can talk about all that later, I promise. First thing though, you smell like shit. So, uh, so let's get another lightbulb, then you in the shower, and then we can both feel better. Okay?”

* * *

_Never get attached._ Hunter rule #1. He’d said it with surly bravado for years, charming, cool and casual.

_Right._

One of those people he “wasn’t attached” to was now on the other side of the bathroom door, and _damn_ he'd been in there a long time.

"Hey uh...Cas?" He taps his fingers softly against the door, trying to be aware of how easy it is to frighten the angel. “Buddy, you doing okay in there?"

No response. He knocks a little more firmly, self-talking the frantic worry bubbling up inside him. He presses his ear against the door, but the only thing he can hear is the sound of the shower.

"Cas?"

He chews his lip, pops his head out into the dark hallway, debates waking Sam.

After Cas got the jump on him earlier, the smart move would be to go get his brother. The real question being: Is it worth the inevitable lecture he would get, or the possibility that he’d walk in on his brother and Eileen if they were otherwise engaged.

Plus he feels weird about leaving Cas completely alone. He knocks one more time, ‘accidentally’ fiddling with the handle, finding it unlocked.

Dean takes a deep breath and pushes carefully into the room.

“Hey Cas I’m doing my best here to respect your privacy but—“ It wasn’t steamy inside, no condensation on the mirror, no sticky feeling on his face.

The shower was on, on the floor a chaotic pile of filthy clothes, the curtain half-pulled off the hooks at the top, and there was the angel, his an— _best friend_ sitting and shivering underneath the onslaught of water. Cas is staring straight ahead, eyes wide and unseeing, he doesn’t react at all to the hunter’s sudden presence in the room.

“Ah _fuck it all_ Cas.”

Without another thought, Dean pulls off his shoes, socks and jacket and steps into the tub, hit in the face by the ice cold water,

“Shit shit shit.” The plastic whines as he slides down the side and crowds up against Cas' bare side.

The angel doesn’t say a word, allowing the tall hunter to squish up against him: shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. Dean is doing his best not to stare at the ribs he can see through his skin of Castiel’s side.

Dean pushes past the desire to fix everything, rubbing his hands up and down Cas’ arms trying to warm him up a little, while reaching his around and turning the knob up warmer a little at a time. He leaves his arm around the Angel's shoulders, trying to ignore the way Cas flinches and attempts to make himself smaller.

The water had already begun washing away the dirt, but some of the marks he had thought would be cleaned off remained, a flowerbed of mottled color across his skin. Bruises and scars and dried, partially healed wounds. Many, if not all, seem self-inflicted.

“Fuck bud, What did they do to you?" He pulls Cas a little closer, his gut tightening in anger and guilt.

“Cas, you know you can talk to me about it right?" He murmurs, relaxing his grip, giving the angel a few seconds to scoot away if he needed to. He knows this much touch is risky, but Castiel moves incrementally closer, his body still shivering from head to toe, long hair flopping into his eyes.

“Looks like both of us kinda let ourselves go the past couple of months.” He takes his time, gradually brushing the hair out of Cas’ eyes.

“There you are.” He smiles, “Thought we lost you there for a hot second. Now, how about we just sit in here and chat for a little bit until you feel better? Gotta catch you up, most importantly, we got a dog and went to a pie festival—“

They sit like that for a long time, Dean rubbing comforting circles on the skin of Cas’ back, quickly running out of new things to tell the angel, before softly unfolding stories about when he was a kid, the summers with Bobby, the fireworks with Sam and the way his back and knees hurt now, how Dean had kept his Angel Blade safe, and loved embarrassing the hell out of Sam and Eileen now that they were "a thing".

Cas’ head drops onto Dean's shoulder, hypnotized by the sound of Dean’s voice, until slowly the shaking lessens and then stops entirely.

"Dean?"

When Dean hears Cas’ voice finally. it’s so quiet and hopeless that he has to resist the urge to drape himself around the angel and talk him into being okay, just like he would do, (had done) for himself.

Instead he swallows around the lump in his throat and manages. "Yeah Cas What’s up?”

"I am naked."

He half smiles, becoming abruptly away of the fact himself, ignoring the little surge of panic in his chest, and wipes the water out of his eyes, starting to feel the stiffness in his knees and back from sitting unmoving for so long. "Yeah bud, you uh, _are_."

“I do not recall this memory." He tenses beneath Dean's touch, the tiredness back in his tone, when he find his voice again it’s pitched as though the hearer is observing from a distance.

“Are you out of things that happened in my reality so you are reduced to fabricating now? Are you able to do that now? Because I do not recall this dream either. I do not understand why you show me—”

“—It’s cause it’s not a memory Cas. _Real_. You're home."

A long pause, a bitter snort.

“Dean would not be comfortable with this." He says firmly, " _My_ Dean could barely stand being in the room with me."

He was already starting to lean away, a deep sadness in his voice. Dean watches all the ground he felt he’d gained falling out from under them, guilt rising, swallowing everything. He shifts and rotates carefully in the tub to speak directly to Cas, the plastic squeaking dramatically.

The Angel is already staring down at his bare feet, the vacant look returning.

"Hey, hey, hey—“ Dean gambles, He knows he sounds like a fucking broken record, and grabs Cas' face, jerking his eyes and attention back to him. “Stay with me here Cas— Listen to me, we never stopped looking for you, never. I would fuckin' die trying before I could leave you like that. You know that.”

Cas searches his face for the truth in those words, straining like he wants to believe him. Dean feels his heart in his throat, it’s beating so fast he can barely think. _Why had he spent so much time in the past year avoiding this Angel_ , his angel _, the one who had gripped him tight—_

"And raised you from perdition" Cas finishes, fingers curling into tight balls where they lay on his knees.

"You in my head Cas?” Dean warns, more out of nervousness than anger, but the Angel flinches back.

"I'm sorry, i'm sorry, _so sorry_." Cas’ hands now over his ears, his body shaking again. "I can't control all —of it. It's _so_ loud here. And i'm so tired, I’m so tired."

He takes Cas' hands, pulling them from over his ears.

“No worries Cas, _hey_ , it’s okay, do whatever you want, _my casa es su casa_ — tiptoe through the fuckin' tulips or whatever, don’t stress about it.”

Cas seems to relax, nodding faintly, Dean becomes aware of his hands still holding Cas'. He drops them nervously and clears his throat.

“Alright, Angel, you think you can finish up here? I’ll get you some towels and then you can sleep— I promise.”

* * *

**November 30**

Sam (of course) is waiting outside Cas’ little bunker suite when Dean finally slips out. He rolls his eyes at the expression on his brother’s face and shrugs.

“So?” Dean quips. “Go ahead, lay it on me, bitch away.”

All Sam does is sigh, and follows Dean into the kitchen, which just happens to be the place where they can yell at each other without fear of waking their respective sleeping partners.

“He doesn’t remember anything from before.” Sam opens rapid-fire. “Eileen said she’s not sure how far back, he remembers being in the bunker, Billie coming for you two—“

“Yeah he told me.”

Sam's frown deepens, like he didn't already fucking know. Dean remembers fondly what it was like when Sam lived in reverent awe of him.

“You talked to him? Are you sure that’s the best thing right now?”

“What, you think I should ignore him? Let him work through it alone?” Dean’s voice rises, making Sam wince, “He’s family Sammy.”

“That’s not what I’m saying at all and you know it.” Sam tucks his hair behind his ears. “I’m— I’m worried about you, both of you. _You_ almost killed yourself trying to get him out, and now he’s here with us, and is practically feral and _you’re_ still acting like you’ve got to save him. You don't see how that could maybe... set off some sirens oh paragon of healthy emotions?“

Dean is listening, but mostly slamming the cupboard doors, yanking open a drawers willy-nilly, apparently not finding what he is looking for, Sam presses on. “Dean, I just, you’ve both been through a lot, and you, you’ve been very… _different_ , since Cas...”

“Did you expect me to just wake up, cuddle Miracle and go to _goddamn_ pie festivals until I let some vampire in a dollar store clown mask hang me up like a meat coat? Then end up in my heaven with Dad living within spitting distance.”

Sam’s face pinches in confusion. “Dude that was weirdly specific.”

Dean nods, “I’m still pissed at you, but side note: I had the weirdest fuckin’ dream Sammy,”

“I’m just gonna blaze past the words ‘ _Meat Coat_ ’ and jump right into, your heaven is with Dad?”

“ _Right_?” Dean takes a gulp of water. “That’s when I started to think cursed.”

“Well, what was _I_ doing?”

Dean shrugs and starts digging through the fridge aimlessly, “Honestly, it was a little unclear, you married a very blurry, lady-shaped person and named your son after me—“

“What the fu—“

“—And then I just drove around heaven, I guess, until you got there.”

“So I died by vamp attack too?”

“Nah.” He replies in between bites of a pickle. “You died of old age, I think. Your hair actually got _worse_ with old age dude.”

Sam purses his lips, does not engage. " _You_ drove around… heaven?”

“—Baby was there.” Dean amends, sniffing something in a bowl, retching quietly and throwing it gingerly into the trash.

“ _Okay_ , So you die super dramatically, get to heaven and just road trip for 40ish years…With _Dad_?”

“Negatory, went Solo. _Lone wolf_ Dean like an asshole.” He jerks his head out of the fridge and shoots Sam a look. “ _With Dad_?” He parrots in a high mocking tone. “What the hell Sam.”

Sam’s response is a rude gesture. “So, what, were we going after vamps cause of a lead on Cas?”

“ _Nope_.” Dean sets a carton of eggs out on the counter.

“Wait what?”

 _"_ You heard me _, Nope_.” He repeats, popping the ‘p” in an insufferable manner,sniffing a package of bacon before pulling it out with a little flourish. “Actually wait— I’m pretty sure we ate a slice of pie in honor of his sacrifice.”

Sam absently pulls his hair back in a bun, yanks it out, runs his hands through his hair and pulls it back up again in exasperation. “What the fuck man? Dean, maybe you should get your head checked? Or I could do some research and make sure it’s not a prophecy or alternate universe or something”

“In the dark and shitty timeline maybe,” Dean mutters, “Nah Sam. It was a fucked up dream and that’s all there is to it.” He’s focused on his frying pan, eyeballing the bacon grease with suspicion, toast dramatically placed in the toaster. “Let’s just pretend it never happened and move on with how our lives actually turned out.”

Sam grins and shrugs, “Listen dude, I love you, and dream or not, I know that this is your way of avoiding talking about what’s going on with you and Cas. I’ve been your third wheel for like 10 years and I’m not an idiot.”

“Maybe, it's not avoidance, _maybe_ I’m just sick of our kitchen therapy sessions.”

Sam rolls his eyes, watching his brother prepare breakfast at… 430am for his platonic angel partner of 12 years.

_Completely normal._

“Alright fine, You and Cas are important to me. I want you both to be happy, like _at peace_ , freedom, drive off into the sunset of your choice happy. _You both_ deserve it. We’ve talked, you already know what I’d like to do next, what _my_ happy looks like.” He casts a fond glance toward his and Eileen’s room. “So I trust you, Okay? And I’m here, if you want to talk about what you’re going through.”

“You done?” Dean’s voice is gruff, his back to Sam, still fussing over the stove, Sam can hear that he’s pleased.

“Hey Dean?”

“Hmm?”

“You sure your boyfriend likes his bacon extra crispy?”

“Damn straight he does.” His brother retorts enthusiastically before realizing, “I mean, yeah, Cas told me he does.” Then as an afterthought. “Asshole.”

Sam sighs and nods, unsure to this moment why he even trie, he leans forward suddenly.

“Dean are you using _kale_ for garnish?”

“What?” He brother is instantly shy and defensive, “They’re both green, both plants, both inedible. It’s Cas, he’s not gonna know the difference. He's just gonna wake up and be starving and boom—” He slides the bacon onto the plate with a flourish.

“You got him to sleep?”

“ _Yeah_ , got him cleaned up, new sheets, new clothes, no empty goo all over ‘em, and uh… you know, talked to him about what he’d missed until he fell asleep.”

“So…” It's too late for Sam to go back to sleep now, he might as well change into something he can run in. “You’ve just been watching him sleep?”

Dean’s head snaps up, already glaring belligerently. “It’s not creepy. Plus he used to do it to me all the time. And besides uh, he sorta fell asleep on my shoulder, didn't want to wake him up.”

“Ri-ight.” Sam holds out the vowel skeptically. “Not creepy, Roger that.”

“Also.” Dean puts a dramatic hand across his heart. “I _feel_ like I should tell you that it really hurts me when you mock me like that.”

“Fuck off Dean.” He’s already headed back to his room to change. “Tell Cas I said hi.”

* * *

“If you _are_ Dean.” Castiel asks, staring apprehensively at the plate of bacon and eggs which lay untouched on the bed beside him, “Tell me something that only Dean Winchester would know.”

Dean smirks, still wrapping up his arm from where he’d proved he wasn’t a monster via silver knife. This should be less painful, all he has to do is reach into an arsenal of 12 years worth of conversations, arguments and everything in between.

He plops himself at the end of the bed a little too hard and wheezes. Damn creaky old man bones.

“Let’s see… a while back, you remember when we uh, surprised Jack and celebrated Christmas in the bunker, and we were uh, putting up that damn tree as fast as we could cause he’d gone to sleep and, Sam was trying to wrap presents, and we were decorating, anddrinkin’ beers and you told me, _uh_ that you’d never had somebody get you a gift before the uh, the mixtape I gave you.”

Dean felt the same level of intense regret as he had in the moment when Castiel originally told him. He had quietly promised himself that when all this was over, he’d make sure there was something under the tree every damn year. He could even make up a birthday if he needed to.

Castiel’s blue eyes meet his, vulnerable and soft, so uncertain. “Jack was very excited, it is a good memory.” He agrees, “One of the last positive ones I can place, everything is very… fuzzy.” His shoulders relax very slightly. Dean tries not to grin as Cas picks up a piece of bacon experimentally, taking the tiniest of bites, humming in faint happiness at the crunch and taste.

_That's right. Fuck you Sam._

“Was that the year we bought him the bike?” Cas asks through a mouthful of eggs, sounding more confident,

“Mmhmm, and we taught both of you to ride it.” Dean purses his lip thoughtfully. “Tried at least.”

“And then last year…” Dean waits for Cas to remember, head tilting with concentration. “You and he watched all those hallmark movies on television and he became obsessed with—“

“Mistletoe.” They say at the same time.

Cas is staring at the kale in confusion, before sticking it in his mouth with a shrug, “He kept putting it up where people had to cross paths…” He doesn’t look up at Dean.

“You’re wrong.” Dean sneaks a piece of bacon when the angel looks up in confusion. “I was never obsessed with hallmark.”

“Right. Of course. Yes.” He replies with a cautious half-smirk at his lap. “Please keep your hands off my bacon.”

Dean winks, now high on his victory. “Uh, let’s see… you told me the one time you talked me into going to that Farmer’s market down in Arizona, that succulents remind you of me. Still don’t know what that means.”

Castiel chuckles, low and musical, but doesn’t explain.

The sound, so infrequently heard stirs Dean to reach further. “You told me that, when we were done with all of this saving the world stuff, you would like to have a garden, tend bees. Yeah _tend_. Mocked the hell out of you for that. But uh, you were clear about wanting to do it the old fashioned way, ‘sweat of your brow’ and all that, no angel juju.”

Cas leans back and closes his eyes, the faintest hint of a smile playing across his face. “You cried at the end of _To Kill a Mockingbird_.”

“Whatever, fuck you.” Dean grumbled, but his eyes crinkle “This isn’t even about me.”

“You also asked me to use my grace to take you back in time to see Led Zeppelin in concert.”

“Actually, No regrets on that one.” Challenge accepted, if Cas was gonna play this way, time to pull out the big guns. “You actually prefer Cas over your full name.”

Eyes snap open. “Not true” Cas protests.

“Mmhmm. Drunk Cas says so.”

The angel nearly pouts, “Maybe it has more to do with who gave it.”

Direct.

Dean looks up, not expecting to meet Cas’ gaze, a glint in the angel’s eyes.

“I did not like it at first, but later, It gave me purpose, Not just God’s shield, but a protector of all who are in need.” He looks down at his hands, at the bruises and scratches, healing so slowly, _human_ slowly. “Now I am protector of nothing.”

“— _Hey_ , Not true.” Dean pokes Cas in the knee, belying the sincerity of his words. “You’re still our Cas, maybe just on the bench for a little bit while you heal up. Between you and me, even with your battery all wonky you’re probably still more badass than I am. But— that’s only because I can’t help getting old.”

“My vessel is also aging, Dean.”

“Wait really?” The hunter is suddenly in his face, squinty with intensity, he smells like leather and gun oil and the old spice shower gel he gets on sale in town. “I don’t think so man. You look, pretty much fresh as the day you popped down in the barn and scared me shitless.” He sniffs, nods his head skeptically, “Hair’s a little better maybe.”

“Are you being facetious? Sometimes I have trouble…”

“No? Why in the hell— wait, why would you let your vessel age? Don’t you guys normally use angel juice to keep it all fresh and perky once you get attached?"

Cas squints, much of his first years near Dean was figuring out how to speak Winchester. He still wouldn’t say he was fluent, but it occasionally helped when Dean underestimated his understanding.

He feigns confusion, “Why would I be attached? Why does it matter if it is… perky?”

As expected, Dean rolls his eyes, a light flush across his cheekbones.

Cas doesn’t say that he allows his vessel to age so that he may protect Dean in a face the hunter knows until he passes off the mortal coil to Jack’s new heaven. Dean will always have Castiel, _his_ Castiel. But after, Cas will live on and choose a face that does not remind him of his time with the Winchesters.

Dean is still staring, his face says doesn’t quite believe the angel's obviousness, “Perky is uh… well, It doesn’t, it doesn’t, uh, it doesn’t matter. You look great. Honestly, for your age.”

“Dean I am older than time itself.” Cas sighs, Dean cockily picks up his plate which he had emptied absent-mindedly during their talk. The hunter is pleased and proud and is not thinking through his words carefully.

“Exactly. What a DILF.” He chokes on his own words, ears going bright red. _Fuckin' Claire with her fuckin' weird ass slang_

Cas’ face crinkles up, “I don’t know—" He may actually have to google that one.

“I gotta— Sam’s calling— try to uh, sleep or come watch a movie if you get bored.” He throws a jaunty wave and is gone before Cas can say another word.

That afternoon, when Sam walked past Cas’ bedroom door there were 4 little succulents placed carefully on the floor outside. A note tucked into the outside:

_"Guy at the nursery (baby plants, haha), said these little fuckers need at least an hour of light per day. So be ready to walk at 2"_

Next to a tiny cartoony drawing of a succulent with spiky hair (leaves?) wearing a flannel and holding what looked like a tiny version of the colt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eileen is my favorite.
> 
> Mostly that's it, sorry about my erratic capitalization of the word "angel". It's literally been like.... 8 years since I've published anything. As always, tell me what you liked, it gives me the honey glows.
> 
> Much Love
> 
> \- vibes
> 
> PS: This whole fic was moderately inspired by Tumblr, and the The Assembly EP by Amber run. Go listen, it'll make you real sad.


	2. December

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome, this might be my favorite chapter, unclear, 
> 
> Recommended listening:
> 
> Heaven is a Place - Amber Run  
> Straight Razor - Matt Maeson  
> Simple Math - Manchester Orchestra  
> Norman f*****g Rockwell - Lana Del Rey

**December 04**

A week goes by.

Dean keeps an eye on Cas, trying not to pry, or push, but it’s obvious to anyone the way he shadows the angel, nervously anticipating the needs of the man who looks so fragile.

Late one evening, he notices the color suddenly washes from Cas' face mid-movie night, Dean is ready, up and across the room, bending low to speak slowly and carefully.

Sam and Eileen pretend not to notice, letting the movie play.

The hunter suggests a drive, as that is what makes him feel better when memories and fear chokes out reality and hope slips down the drain at random.

Cas nods once, mutely, and Dean is already on his feet and away, humming nervously under his breath as he slips into his room and returns with two coats, a huge pair of boots, exiting once more and reappearing, duffel bag in hand.

Cas asks about his trench coat and Dean rolls his eyes; pushing one of his old leather ones at the angel, griping about the fact that it was December, and _‘no way in hell was he's letting the angel walk around in a friggin’ glorified rain coat’_.

Cas docilely nods, takes the coat, and spare boots. Dean oversees the process and fusses the whole time. He surveys his work and checks the weather on his phone, disappearing once again, emerging this time with a deep blue scarf. Dean drapes it around the angel's neck, and only Sam sees him secretively pull the price tags off the edge when Cas isn't paying attention.

Sam and Eileen hear the keys jingle as they’re pulled from the key rack that Jack made for them, their names written methodically underneath each hook in his uneven scribble.

“Don’t wait up.” Dean yells, and the bunker is quiet yet again.

* * *

_“How long you been in love with him?” Meg asks softly, watching him stare out the window at the moonlit trees._

_“Who?” He is flustered, and a terrible liar. “I am not sure I know who you’re talking about.”_

_“Listen Clarence,” She’s up and next to him, standing too close. He doesn’t seem to notice, he never does. “I’m giving you a chance to come clean here, cause If I spell it out, it’s definitely gonna make you feel more awkward than me.” It’s a sadistic question, but she’s always enjoyed pain. Even if it’s her own._

_He leans tilts his head, and meets her eyes in the reflection in the glass._

_“I am with you Meg.” He says seriously in his curiously formal way, and he means it, Meg wishes that it didn’t make her feel the way it does. It isn't an answer, they have nothing between them and still, it matters._

_“Mmhmm.” Her tone light, teasing. “I know. I didn’t ask cause the bowlegged heehaw makes me jealous.” A lie, but she’s better at it than he is. “Just curious is all.”_

_“We have a profound bond.” He tries again, his shoulders sag._ _She waits, cause she knows him_ just _well enough._

_“Since the very beginning.” He breathes to the night sky. Meg can feel in the way he speaks the words that he hasn’t acknowledged it out loud before._

_“Does he know?”_

_“No." Firm, tense. "My feelings... it would just add burden. It is better this way.” For Dean._ He doesn't add.

_She debates revealing to him how obvious his yearning is to everyone. Or how the older Winchester says so much without saying anything._

_Right now, Dean doesn’t deserve the Angel any more than she does. The fucking idiot still hasn’t figured out that Angels can even have complex emotions._

_“Have you ever been selfish Castiel?” She asks in a voice that is nearly soft._

_He shifts uncomfortably, as if he’s never contemplated the option._

_Again, she wonders if telling Cas about the hunter’s evident— if deeply repressed— feelings might be the good thing to do, perhaps even the right thing to do._

_Meg has never claimed to be good._

_“That’s where we’re different Clarence." She says with a smirk. "See, I take what I can get.”_

_Tonight she’ll be selfish._

* * *

“I can see my breath.”

Dean spares the angel a glance. Cas has gotten the window half cranked down, the moonlight gleaming on his hair and eyes as they raise in wonder of the solemn night.

With effort Dean turns his eyes back to the road.

“It’s thirty-two degrees Cas, roll up the damn window before you get sick.” But there’s no fire behind his words, he cranks up the heat in Baby, laying a hand on the dash fondly. Relieved that Cas' panic from before seems to have dissipated.

“It is a full moon tonight.” The angel informs, rolling up the window obediently, eyes faintly luminous like a cat caught in headlights.He blinks and it’s gone.

“You told me a while ago that you’d love to go look at stars out here, well, full moon’s the best time to do that.”

“That was years ago.” Cas replies, still staring out the window, cheek pressed against the glass, it fogs up with each exhale, he doesn't seem to notice.

“Never too late.” Dean gestures with his head to the dark behind them. "When I park, grab the cooler in the backseat, it’s gonna be cold as fuck out there.”

* * *

“Do you remember the first time we met?”

Dean walks around the edge of Baby, hopping up on the front bumper and scooting backwards until his back rests against the windshield, he nods for Cas to join, taking the cooler Cas dutifully retrieved from the backseat.

“In the gas station?”

Dean wheezes a laugh and shakes his head and Cas can’t help but stare at him. The laughter of the Righteous Man will never fail to affect him.

“Nah Cas- we didn’t meet then, that’s not how— shit, I thought you were some demon trying to drag me back to hell,” Dean unzips the top and pulls out two thermos’ and a couple hand warmers handing one of each to the angel.

“Oh...” Cas nods his acquiescence, his eyes already on the sky. “I was less accustomed to human friendship initiation rituals then and… I quite eager to meet you.”

“Yep, got that when you almost burnt my eyes out.”

“Untrue, that was the second time we met. “

“Uh-huh, you’re right... the second time went _much_ better.” Dean grins at the memory, turning his own gaze upward, “But, but no, I’m talking about your grand entrance with all the fire and sparks and _‘I gripped you tight and raised you from perdition_.'”

“My voice does not sound like that. I am not from the south, your impressions of me always sound like I am provincial.”

Dean bounces happily, winding Cas up still makes it to top-ten things he enjoys in life. Plus this was the most emotion Cas had expressed in the week since he’d been home.

“It did then. Sounded like you’d smoked 12 packs a day since you were 8, and then washed it all down with gravel and gasoline.”

“Oh.” Cas looks dubious, self-conscious, his hands crumple into fists. “I didn’t realize it was so unpleasant.”

“Not what I said bud.” Dean glances sideways at his companion, annoyed by his plan backfiring, he fidgets with his thermos, “It’s fine, actually, it kinda ruined anyone else saying ‘ _Hello Dean_ ’” He pitches his voice outrageously low again for effect. “So don’t go changin’ anything up okay? I'm set in my ways.”

Cas clearly doesn’t know how to respond, choosing to take a drink from the thermos instead. The hunter eyes the motion,

“We uh, we didn’t have any of that organic honey shit you always liked. So it’s just plain… uh tea.”

“Thank you Dean.” He says, and means it. “I did not realize that there was any left in the bunker.” Cas leans into the familiarity of their connection, letting it soothe the tattered edges of his mind.

“We didn’t— I uh, I asked Sam… and Jack, and uh, bought some. On the _in-ter-webs_.” The hunter’s face seems faintly embarrassed and dangerously soft in his peripherals.

“You are wrong though.” Cas says, breaking the moment, Dean frowns.

“About the… honey?“

“No. About the first time we met. It was not any of those times.” He hesitates under Dean’s questioning gaze, “I—Ido not know how to explain in a way that you will truly understand.” He sighs, annoyed with himself for bringing it up, but the look on Dean’s face says that he won’t let it drop now.

“We’ve got time Cas.” The hunter says, gesturing to the field they're sitting in, empty for miles. “If you think you can uh, clear your schedule.”

“Our first meeting.” Cas starts, after a long moment, in which Dean does a poor job of hiding his impatience. “Was in the pit, I disobeyed orders,” Dean is already confused, Cas continues. “I was— I was supposed to rescue you and deliver you back to earth to fulfill your purpose. That was it, I was never supposed to mark you.”

“Okay. But instead you what— collared me like a puppy?” Dean teases, but his eyes are serious, he trusts that the angel has not brought up his time in hell without purpose.

“In a way.”Cas is searching for words, trying to translate the memory without revealing too much. “Angels mark certain vessels to prevent other celestials from accidentally borrowing them. It is a common practice since some of us share a closer bond than others and may use the same host bloodline in an urgent situation. But it can be… catastrophic for the vessel if two beings possess it simultaneously without warning. Plus, it is _very_ rude.”

Dean remembers Lucifer’s expressions on Cas’ face, he swallows.

“So, _Split_ meets _Face/Off,_ got it.”

“I— perhaps.” Cas frowns, “Originally, I marked _Jimmy Novak_ as my vessel, it made him easy to find, easy to communicate with, as I wished to use him as a vessel moving forward—“

“—So, uh, who else would you allow to use your meat suit?” Dean can’t resist, even though he isn’t sure he wants the answer.

“Um," Cas' eyes roll slightly as he thinks, "Balthazar, would be one you are familiar with.”

A moment of razor sharp jealousy spikes in Dean, “Right, right.” He forces out, “Cause you were old pals upstairs.”

Castiel detects the resentfulness in his voice, but misinterprets the venom.

“You did not meet him at his best, Dean, when he fought together— I do not like to brag, but we were a quite a force to be reckoned with, in fact, I believe, you would have liked him, you two are very similar.”Cas wonders what that means about him, the two beings who he had been closest to shared many common traits. 

“So you marked me because I reminded me of your long lost Angel BFF. _Neat._ ” Dean knows how petty he sounds. He _is_ petty. He rolls his jaw in irritation, pokes at a hole in his jeans.

“No.” Cas frowns, “I mean, yes, I knew Balthazar for eons Dean. Murdering him is one of my biggest regrets— but that has nothing to do with why I marked—“

“—So you weren’t supposed to mark me.” Dean interrupts, hoping that Cas doesn’t notice the edge in his voice, but if the story doesn’t move on he’s gonna need something stronger than spiced cider, and he still has to drive them home.

“Indeed. You were meant for Michael, a sacred vessel—”

“—I mean I _am_ a pretty hot piece of ass.” He smirks, and wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

“I do not believe your ass was part of this evaluation at that time.” Cas ponders the joke too seriously, his eyes briefly roam over Dean, catching himself and returning quickly back to topic. “I was tasked with rescuing the Michael Sword from hell. An unexpected and most honorable mission. But when I saw you… when I saw your… soul, it was…”

“Ruined? Weak? Twisted?”The disparaging note in his words, the self-hatred echoes inside the joking tone. “Spin the wheel, take your pick.”

Cas ignores the self-imposed warnings in his mind, He sees the way Dean is reliving his own regret, and as always his instinct is to rescue Dean, even from himself.

Without thinking, he places his warm hand over Dean’s, pulling his attention from the introspective shame, to the angel’s face.Dean swallows, eyes widening at the touch.

Cas wonders how he can truthfully articulate what he, a celestial soldier of heaven, had felt then— what he feels now— sitting on the hood of the impala with this man while the stars shine above them.

“Beautiful.” He answers simply, as it is the only word in the language of men that can even come close. Perhaps the only word which has ever come close.

Dean inhales sharply at the word, and oh, the vulnerability, the oceans of expression that run across his green eyes. The same light he witnessed in that moment in hell looks out from a vessel whose loveliness cannot begin to compare to the radiant soul of Dean Winchester. ****

 _How can such a being not see his own value? How could he not understand?_ That when Castiel was offered heaven, it was never even a choice.

But instead of those things, he blinks; His hand retreats awkwardly from Dean’s.

“You need… context.” He murmurs, and tilts his head up toward the night sky to avoid looking too closely at the man beside him.

“My garrison, we were created for the hallowed art of battle. Warriors, assigned to protect and watch over earth until the arrival of the final day. We were renowned and feared among the legions of the adversary, and even _then_ it took us so long to find you in hell." He pauses, knowing the pain they had caused him by the delay. "We had been assaulting the abyss for what felt like an age— when we got word of your location, the enemy knew, and their final stand was bloodier than ever before—” He closed his eyes, could still smell the sulphur, the warmth of the pits, could hear the screams of enemies and friends alike in that forsaken place.

“I was ordered to retreat— but then I glimpsed you: a righteous soul in hell. Bowed and scarred yes, but not broken, never once broken.” Cas couldn’t help the awe seeping into his voice. “I cannot begin to describe my astonishment at the sight of you. I was an ancient being, I had seen ages come and go; great men rise and fall. But you— even though you had been so utterly devastated by the tortures of Alistair, you would not let go of who you had been—You were in the pit— turned from victim to torturer, it had unleashed the worst darkness in you, Yet you fiercely fought to remember, even if the guilt over who you had become was ripping you apart. I saw you, corruption covered you, but even hell itself could not diminish the way you shone.” He smiles faintly, breathing out reverently at the memory, eyes still craned upward. “So, I did not retreat; instead, I fought my way to your side.”

Cas chuckles, “Even in your weakened state, you fought me, in my true form; Understandably, you could not know my purpose was rescue. But I could not fight the hoards of hell _and_ you, so I marked you, to communicate, knitting my grace to your soul. You stopped fighting, and I was able to complete my mission and _‘The heavenly host rejoiced, for Dean Winchester is saved’_ ”

He’s looking at Dean with a raw fondness in his blue eyes, after these many long years, Castiel wonders who saved who.

“Of course, they were furious when they realized what I had done. I, a mere soldier, was never supposed to have such an intimate bond with the Michael Sword.” A rare Cas grin, the angel, so lost in his own memory misses the way Dean shifts closer. They’re touching now, shoulder-to-shoulder, hip-to-hip.

“I disobeyed a direct order for the second time that day, when I refused to remove the mark. You were _my_ charge, I wished to continue protecting you. Zachariah and Uriel eventually agreed, thinking our bond would allow me to influence you into accepting your destiny. As time went on, I became the only angel you trusted and asked for. You can see how that turned out.”

Dean doesn’t talk for a while, Cas is concerned that his storytelling skills have somehow lapsed and Dean has fallen asleep or lost interest entirely.

“I am sorry if bored you, Dean.” He says, sincerely. “Jack always seemed to enjoy the account when I would tell it before bed, Though his favorite was undisputedly _Goodnight Moon_ —”

“—Why didn’t you ever tell me?” Dean mutters, his voice tight. “I thought— I thought you rebelled after that.”

“You are not wrong.” Cas muses, unsure of the emotion he hears. “I drew my line in the sand when I rescued you from The Beautiful Room. But, on reflection, I believe my choice was made in hell.”

 _From the first moment I saw you_. He doesn’t add, choosing the safer, “In hindsight, timing does not matter, it was the actions after.”

“Why don’t I remember any of that?” Cas hears the anger in Dean’s words. “The stuff from hell.”

“Your consciousness protected itself from the vagaries of the pit." He shrugs. "It was obvious to me you did not remember when you stabbed me in the barn.”

“And you never felt like it might be worth sharing?”

“You never asked.”

“Fine.” Dean pulls a flask from his jacket and takes a long swig, offering it to Castiel who shakes his head, watching Dean carefully.

“Are you angry with me Dean?”

Instant regret crosses the hunter's face, and he exhales slow and long and tired.

“Nah, Cas I’m not— honestly I’m— I’m pissed at myself most of the time and I’m just not good at—“ He gestures vaguely around them. "All this."

Cas still looks confused, Dean sighs, frustrated with himself, unable to articulate even to himself what he's trying to accomplish. The Angel is still watching, his face close and warm.

“Are you fucking cold? I’m fucking cold.” Dean doesn’t wait for an answer, slides off the hood and heads to the driver seat.

* * *

**December 05**

“So Sam.”

Sam looks up, hearing the overt level of casualness in his brother’s tone, the kind of nonchalance which only really ever means the opposite. His brother is a lot of things, but apathetic is definitely not one of them.

Dean tends to throw himself into what he cares about with a reckless abandon that leans toward suicidal obsession.

Sam's suspicions only increase as Dean awkwardly props himself against the inside of the doorjamb to the map room, beer in hand. His elbow slides down the wall with a comical whine, he tips, catching himself and frowns at Sam as though nothing happened.

Sam narrows his eyes very slightly, eyebrow arching, a moment later forcing himself to turn back to his laptop as though nothing is weird about the whole situation.

“Hey Dean, what’s… up?” He types random garbled nonsense to keep his hands busy.

Dean takes another hefty gulp of his bottle and sighs. “Has uh, has Cas, you know, ever mentioned, if he likes any particular type of, um, clothes.” He plays with a gash in the wall where Billie’s scythe had cut into the wood and stone “You know like… like, pants and shoes and socks and stuff…” He adds, just in case Sam isn’t sure what _clothes_ meant. Sam wills every bit of concentration into keeping a straight face.

Sam’s mouth twitches, “I mean, clearly he’s into trench coats—“

“Nah, Sam, be serious” Dean says, annoyed “Besides, that was Jimmy— you know— and Cas, sometimes I think he forgets that it’s his body now, not just a vessel anymore… he can make some… choices _aesthetically_.”

Well _that_ isn’t a Dean word.

His brother, far from stupid, cycles through a fairly typical set of lingo learned almost exclusively from Westerns, late night television, and his brief interludes as a pseudo-normal teenager. “Dean, why—“

“Cause Jack said for right now he’s gonna be mostly human, I guess pulling him out of the Empty…” Dean shrugs, he doesn’t really understand,and Jack hadn’t been overly clear, which made him worry even more.

“It might just make him feel better, ya know, if he had something that hadn’t been in there with him.”

It makes sense, a Dean sort of sense, a _“let’s avoid talking and mostly make obscure, grand gestures”_ sort of sense.

Dean’s trying, more than ever before, but this, this feels different.

The gentle spark of an idea strikes Sam’s mind, he leans back in his seat and stretches, keeps his voice light and disinterested.

“I mean, Dean, if you want him to feel the most at home, why don’t you give him some of your stuff? Maybe take him shopping, get his favorite food. You know, a night out of the Bunker, make him feel like he’s home. Like we— _you_ — want him to be here.”

Dean’s forehead creases; Sam for a split second thinks maybe he’s been too obvious, maybe should have salted the word ‘bro’ or ‘buddy’ in a couple of times. But then a there’s a quick shrug of agreement and Dean is around the corner.

Sam angles around the pillar to make eye contact with Eileen, who’d been sitting silently in one of the nearby cubbies witnessing whatever just happened with Dean.

Her eyes are wide with confusion and laughter, she winks at him and points down the hallway where Dean has already disappeared.

_“What. the. fuck.”_

* * *

**December 12**

Cas jerks awake to the sound of a knock at the door, sweaty palm already searching for his angel blade. His human heart pounds; it feels like there’s tiny needles pushing into his forehead.

Being human is so visceral, so _loud_ **.**

It’s worse this time around, being human: ripped unceremoniously from the endless darkness, flung into his host body; sealed in by Jack. He woke from his sleep of self-reproach to be driven almost exclusively by desires, by needs.

_Weak._

Jack, in his new understanding of being a deity had spoken cryptically about how Castiel’s grace was deteriorating his human form. He had not been overly clear on his plan, but calmly indicated that the Winchesters— _that the Bunker_ — would be the best place for him until he could fix it.

So Castiel remains, useless and tired… and not quite all _human_.

A nauseating mix of grace and corruption, doubt and faith.

Whoever is there knocks again.

He thought he was over this, past the panic and crippling fear, but no, he wakes with the weight of the universe pressing down on him and the thought of getting out of bed is something that feels him with dread, all he wants is to hide from the whole world and never come out.

The door opens, the bed dips, he ignores it, keeping his cheek against the cool wall, willing his heart to slow, his thoughts to stop their screaming spiral.

_At least the Empty was quiet._

“Hey Cas…”

Heat rushes inadvertently to his face and chest, he twists the blanket up around around his face, hoping Dean gets the point.

“It’s pretty bad today isn’t it?” A tentative hand brushes across his shoulders, the hunter fingers trail across his shoulder blades, he nearly shrieks.

No, Not _quite_ human.

“I uh, brought you some stuff,” In a very non-Dean manner, he waits for the angel to react.

Curiosity and something that feels like cold anger roils low in Cas’ gut, he rolls over, and stares blankly at the bundle of fabric, mostly neutral greens and blues, a couple black t-shirts, a few pairs of jeans. It all smells freshly washed.

“I don’t…” Dean gnaws on the inside of his cheek. “I’m not sure if it’ll fit, you’re a little skinnier than me since…” He winces at his own lack of discretion and taps nervously on the bed. “But now that you’re back, you’re here… and home…”

Castiel’s heart shudders, one word punching through his emotional defenses.

_Home._

Such a simple concept, but he doesn’t think Dean means home in the way that Cas feels it. Home is not the warded walls of the Bunker or even the back seat of the Impala watching the world go past.

Home is, has been, two green eyes and a soul which shines so brightly he’d given up everything for the chance to remain in it’s orbit, even if only to reflect the light coming off.

Dean takes his silence nervously, reacting in the most positive way he knows to express concern,

“So you uh… you hungry?”

It takes Cas an hour to decide if he is,

* * *

_You changed me, Dean._

They play over and over in Dean’s head like a stuck record while he waits, those and the ones that came before and after: the words that gave Dean the strength to beat Chuck once and for all; the ones he absolutely avoids thinking about at all costs.

Cas still hadn’t brought them up, hadn’t gotten awkward and avoidant.

Dean wonders if he lost more than time and grace in the Empty, everything leading up to the moment he was taken seem to be unclear or lost. The hunter sure as hell has no idea how to even bring It up.

 _“Oh hey bud— I know you’re going through PTSD from being sent to mega, super, hell and having to live through every time you failed— and me, being the useless sack of meat that I am, I couldn’t figure out a way to get you out,_ my bad _. Oh by the way— the reason you got sent there in the first place was because you confessed your love to me, and let yourself be happy for the first time in your life cause I’m the piece-of-shit who didn’t realize you could care like that, even though we’ve sorta relied on each other off and on ever since I met you— and by met you I mean you saved me from hell itself. Plus, every time you die I feel like most of me dies with you…Sam noticed, Bobby noticed, hell, Crowley and your dickshit brothers knew but_ not me _. So_ anyway, _uh… sorry to make you feel weird but like… I know now and I—“_

It always cut off there, a blank space of uncomfortable ache and jittery static.

“Dean?”

He swallows. Cas is staring at him in concern. Dean prays that the angel hasn’t somehow heard that mindless paragraph of panic, okay maybe _praying_ isn't the best call.

Dean actually takes him in, and that line of thought, and all others, dwindleat the sight of Castiel: Angel of the Lord, Vessel of Mercy, Warrior of Heaven standing in the doorway of his room in a blue flannel that Dean had worn maybe once (not his color, according to an Elle magazine he’d picked up ‘by accident’ during a stakeout), and a pair of Dean’s tightest old jeans. They’re hanging so loose off his hips that Dean makes a mental note to buy him a belt, or stop looking at the way his hipbones show below the _KISS_ T-shirt riding up.

_Fuck, whatever,_

“Everything is too large, but it will be fine.” Cas assumes the extended stare is negative, he still isn’t in a good mood.

“You uh, you look good Cas— they’re— you’re— it’ll be fine” His voice cracks, and Dean could swear that he hears the telltale laugh of a floppy-haired sasquatch around the corner. “Uh— I mean, are you ready to go? You cool if we take the Impala?” He’s up and on his feet, ready to flee.

“I don’t have shoes.” Cas’ eyes drop pointedly to his socked toes, they haven’t really left the vicinity of the bunker since Jack dropped him off.

Well, other than stargazing, But those boots look like crap, pretty much all holes. He’s not gonna let Cas go out like that. He’s not a complete asshole.

"Oh fuck. Sorry man…” Dean brushes past the Angel, his hands barely graze Cas’ side as he does. He’s so busy willing himself not to react that he misses the way the Angel wrenches back, his lips curl into a snarl,

“You, uh stay right there. I’ll— I’ll figure something out.”

“Where else would I go Dean?” Cas snarks tiredly, noting that Sam and Eileen are suspiciously absent, ignoring the creeping tendrils of jealousy at the ease of their relationship.

Dean lumbers back into the kitchen minutes later, familiar leather jacket in one hand.

Cas wonders absently where the soft green one he favored recently has gone to. The hunter pauses—noting his stare with interest— dropping a pair of black and white chucks on the ground next to the kitchen table.

“Not sure if these’ll fit.” He says proudly, nervously, in his Dean way. “Didn’t even realize I kept ‘em, got rid of most everything in high school when Dad told me I dressed like a…” The word didn’t bear repeating.

“ _Idiot_.” He paraphrases, and _goddamn_ his childhood was actually fucking awful. ”I mean back then I was cool as hell,but nothingI owned was Hunt friendly— Hell, all of those vintage band t’s woulda sold for a _mint_ on eBay.” He grins at the familiar sight of Cas deciphering Dean-speak,

“These” He points to the shoes. “Are _vintage._ None of that ‘All star’ crap. OG _chucks.”_

Cas’ eyes widen, Dean backpedals.

“No like, Chuck _Taylors_.” He points frantically at the shoes, “It’s a— you know a brand, that’s what they were called…uh. Like _Gucci._ ” The Angel’s brow tightens further, Dean passes a hand over his face, “I suck at this. Dean Winchester, only good at gankin’ ghouls and--”

“—screwing girls.” Cas finishes, clearly done with listening to Dean ramble, sitting heavily on the nearby chair.

Dean scratches his neck, “I have _never_ said that.”

“Drunk Dean does…” Cas retorts, “Loudly and often” He frowns in confusion at the flashy way the shoes are laced. “Except you rarely used ‘screwing’, far more fond of the term 'fu-“

“—Well…Not anymore…as much.” Dean mutters, and then softly, not meant to be heard but heard nonetheless. “Not for like 12 friggin’ years.”

“So you gave me old shoes.” Cas asks tonelessly, still grouchy. “How generous.”

“ _Vintage_.”

“Which is yet _another_ synonym for old. Are you going to say _antique_ next?” There’s an edge to his words, he can’t help it. He wanted to stay in his room and now he feels out of his depth _tying_ _shoes_.

_My how the mighty have fallen_

Dean snorts, enjoying the return of a little fire. “Yeah okay fine— old but like _cool_ old, like me. Do they fit?” He asks,

“I believe so.”

Dean watches while Cas fumbles at the laces for a moment more before kneeling in front of him, ignoring Cas’ surprised intake of breath.

“You don’t know how to tie shoelaces?” He teases.

“I am familiar with the concept. Bunny ears and... holes…”

Dean still hasn’t looked up, he smiles anyway, picking at the knots where Cas tried and failed, before pulling Cas’ foot firmly into his lap, proceeding to yank out the strings and start over.

Cas stares at the top of Dean’s head, at the silver hairs shining in the light, noticing for the first time how long it’s grown since he remembered seeing it last, distracted by the way it shifts as he moves.

“That’s actually pretty adorable dude. You’re older than creation and you don’t know how to work laces. Hell… you’re older than shoes.”

“It was not imperative to my mission _Dean_ , observing humanity did not require complex footwear. And Jimmy’s shoes were ankle boots.” He adds, “It never came up.”

The wrinkles around Dean’s eyes deepen as he listens to the angel grouse. Cas tries not to notice, twisting vaguely against the hunter’s grip and being easily manhandled via ankle back into place.

“Fu— _sit still—_ Pretty sure I tried to teach you once at Bobby’s. I’m also pretty sure about 30 minutes in you pretended to ‘ _take a call from heaven_ ’Dean growls in his best Cas impression, laughing to himself at the memory. “and zapped out.”

“I do not recall that.” Cas can feel the uncomfortable beginnings of a human blush, his face dropping into what Dean fondly refers to as ‘resting bitch angel’, “And I have never once been adorable.”

That brings Dean’s full attention upward, Cas’ foot still settled on his knees.

“I dunno.” He argues. “Back in the day, your hair used to do this thing where it would stick up all over” he imitates Cas’ hair with his hands. “It was pretty damn cute.”

He’s so relaxed; Cas allows himself to look—

 _No._ His breath catches, he looks away, misses Dean’s soft smile.

“I did not think I would be on Earth long in this vessel” Cas says to the top of Dean’s head, hoping his stomach stops leaping every time Dean glances up. “Jimmy’s hair proved... difficult to tame and his appearance was secondary to my purpose.”

“Never said you looked bad _Castiel_ ,”

When Dean says his full name, there is the softest lilt on the part he usually leaves out, like he wants to savor the extra syllables. Even at his most angelic, his heart would stutter at the name coming from the hunter’s lips.

“Honestly always wondered if it was as soft as it looked.” Cas looks down sharply but Dean’s focus is back on finishing the laces of his second shoe.

* * *

The restaurant is not what Cas expects.

In the towns surrounding the Bunker, the Winchester-Kline-Leahy-Cas family unit sticks to a fairly systematic rotation of out-of-the way diners and gas-station cafes.

Finding a place that suits all of their tastes had become more and more difficult as the years passed. Stereotypically though, the establishment made it on the list if they had a pool table, cheap beers and some form of bacon cheeseburger.

This place is newer, settled snugly into the old brick face of the type of downtown area that Dean tends to scoff at until Sam inevitably calls him a grumpy old man and another fight distracts them.

But this time Dean parks, actually pays the meter, smiles proudly at something an old man says about Baby. He notices Cas still sitting awkwardly inside, pulls a face and gestures for him to follow.

The lights inside are low and amber, the back wall lined with bottles, a ladder leaned on the wall in order to reach the highest shelves. The crowd is still small, as it is still early in the evening. The clientele young, well-dressed, mostly couples dotted around the cozy, polished, leather booths. Cas tugs on the sleeve of his borrowed flannel and feels out of place.

A lady behind the bar greets Dean by name, Cas notes that she is, of course, humanly pretty: Stylish and sleek like her counterparts across the restaurant. Her large eyes size Dean up with interest.

She’s already animatedly talking to the hunter, her hands and eyebrows going a mile a minute.This is nothing new to the Angel as he has spent more than a decade adjacent to two conventionally attractive brothers. He takes it all in with irritation, and the self-satisfaction of being the only one who has seen the light which rolls off Dean Winchester’s soul.

 _Not anymore._ His mind bites; he winces and makes an effort to turn his attention back to Dean and the hostess. He stuffs the heavy feeling of human jealousy down into his borrowed shoes and patiently waits for Dean to finish flirting and remember he exists.

He’s struck by the sudden anxiety that this might be one of those moments where Dean attempts to be his wingman. He isn’t sure if he’s mentally prepared to rebuff Dean’s insistence that he needs some sort of physical intimacy with a woman to get back on the mend.

The suffocating dread deepens as the alternative also comes to mind; he braces himself to be a third-wheel, wrapping his arms around his torso; wondering how he will get home if Dean is otherwise engaged.

_Too cold to sleep in the car._

“…Well, I don’t know, why don’t we find out from the man himself, Cas—” Dean is saying something, but his easy, charming smile isn’t focused on her,Cas startles out of his internal somberness when Dean runs a large, warm hand comfortingly down Cas’ elbow. His fingers squeeze gently, coupled with the slightest quirking of Dean’s brows.

“ _Castiel_ ,” He repeats, dropping the rare, attention-grabbing use of the Angel’s full name for the second time that night. “There ya are, Cas, this here’s, my friend… Erin, she wants to know if we’d rather have a booth or table?”

The bartender, Erin, watches the two of them with curiosity, glancing from the hunter’s sunshine smile down to the tanned hand still holding tightly to the angel back up to Cas’ confused expression.

“Oh uh…” Cas licks his chapped lips, sure that he is imagining Dean’s glance dropping to the motion. “A booth is fine, thank you.” Before saying more quietly to Dean. “Why does it matter?”

“Cause I want you to feel comfortable.” Dean retorts, hand now on the small of Cas’ back, pushing him to follow Erin. He only drops his hold on the Angel when they reach a booth at the back corner of the pub. Dean flashes a quick smile and excuses himself to go to “the little boys room”.

Cas watches him go, already missing the heat of his touch and despising himself for it. The yearning isn’t new. It has been part of who Cas is in one form or another ever since, well nearly the beginning. 

If he’s completely honest, _Human_ emotions as a whole, are a pain in the ass and a massive distraction all rolled into the same ball of nonsense.

Maybe _that’s_ why Dean is always so angry.

“So _you’re_ Castiel.”

Surprised from his cycle of gloom, he eyeballs Erin, she’s detached from her place behind the bar and is now leaning against their table. She follows his stare, to where Dean had passed through a tastefully hung curtain.

“That _is_ my name.” Cas affirms, testy because his name sounds grating in her mouth, not the affectionate way that Dean says it at all.

She smirks, dimples appear, she nods again, absolutely unperturbed by his glacial demeanor.

“I guess it makes sense though, some random guy calls up and says that he ‘used the google’ to find us.”

Cas may not understand why she’s speaking to him, but he does appreciate her appropriate use of air quotes.

“Says he wants to find the best place in the area with a ‘bougie pb&j’” Again the air quotes,“Then he shows up two days ago and I mean— _damn_ _—_ Well, obviously, _you_ know— I mean anyone who’s breathing and has eyes can—” She leans in closer, Cas bends awkwardly away in confusion. “I hope you don’t mind me saying,” She whispers, unbothered by the tilt of Cas’ head and the scrunch of his eyebrows,“But even for an older guy he is pretty much 100% silver fox”

“Look it up on urban dictionary later— Anyway, _yesterday_ he comes in and sits at the bar, lookin’ awkward, and then orders every gourmet peanut butter and jelly we offer, drank a couple of craft beers and talks nonstop about you, ‘ _Cas_ this and _Cas_ that; Cas _loves_ pb&js, Cas would love all the glass bottles’” She quirks an eyebrow,

“I feel like an asshole now though, cause I definitely figured you’d look different— guess it teaches me not to subconsciously stereotype the sexy, lumberjack dad— I mean— _now_ I see it, cause, well, you’re in the room and _poof_ , we’re all pretty much background characters.” She sighs wistfully. “What a refreshing day. Nice to meet you Mr. Dean’s Castiel.” She throws out a hand, her smile genuine and kind, he shakes it awkwardly, surprised and softened by the unexpected friendship initiation ritual.

But, he can’t focus on her right now, his limited, mostly human, brain is still trying process the spout of information rationally, comparing it to his knowledge— to his history, with Dean Winchester. He is paralyzed, unable to find a place where this scenario fits in his carefully constructed understanding of what Dean feels is appropriate between two men .

“Oh my god…” Erin says, clapping her hand over her mouth, Cas itches with the urge to tell her not to use Jack’s name in vain, “Did you not know this is a date? Was he trying to surprise you? That’s honestly hella cute,” Her eyes dart to the curtain where Dean has appeared, he notes her at the table; plasters a grin on his face, full of his normal swagger. “Listen, your man’s coming back, I am _so_ sorry if I— good luck!” Erin winks at Cas before she flits back to her place at the bar in front of the door.

* * *

“Saw you makin’ friends with the uh, bartender— nice lady, little young for you though…” Dean continues distantly, trying his best not to sound as defensive as he feels about seeing her all smiley with the Angel. It’s a free country though, and Cas is good-looking in an intense, blue-eyed, stare-y, sexy kinda way. Dean takes an aggressive bite of his burger and stares balefully at the the bar.

Cas isn’t listening, picking at the toasted sandwich in front of him, trying to will himself some of the excitement that Dean always seems to feel about food. His human senses simmer with the intensity of his hunger, but he’s also confusingly melancholic and nauseated. His mind spins with the bartender’s words.

He sighs and pushes his plate away, “Dean why are we doing this?”

Dean chokes mid swig, pauses, the burger immediately dropped onto his plate, uncharacteristically forgotten.

“Well Cas…” He exhales, wiping his hands on his napkin. “The _one_ type of food I can remember you loving is peanut butter and jelly…”

“I see.” Cas says soullessly, but he doesn’t, the conversation drops away, his throat tightens.

Dean looks disappointed, but nods.

Background music plays muffled over their speakers, Cas _does_ try to eat, a few bites awkwardly timed, forcibly reminding himself to chew and swallow. His effort seems to satisfy Dean’s worries enough for him to concentrate on his own meal, taking another massive bite out of the dripping burger with his usual gusto, Dean is already on his second beer, muttering in shock every time he enjoys it.

Oddly, the return to routine calms Cas enough for him to down half of the _Elvis_ , knee only bouncing slightly under the table. Dean smiles, humming along to whatever song’s playing now, someone drops a plate behind him; Cas recoils sharply, he knocks Dean’s beer off the table with a clatter.

People turn to look, to stare, his breath comes in frantic bursts.

“Fuck— I’m sorry Cas.” Dean sounds choked, slapping a napkin over the spill, smiling and raising his hands at the rest of the concerned patrons, his words to Cas are low and apologetic. But he’s clearly upset. The Angel fights the urge to stuff the the rest of the sandwich in his mouth if there is a chance it will comfort the man beside him.

“I don’t know what I was— I honestly just thought this was— fuckin' _Sam,_ “ Dean shrugs. “It was a dumb idea— we can just leave if it’s— look Cas, I just— I had to google places that make _damn_ peanut butter and jelly— Cause I couldn’t think of anything else— other than fuckin’ burgers and, _shit_ Cas, _everybody_ loves burgers so that doesn’t count.”

Cas listens, confused, eyes still large.

“We’ve known each other for 12 freakin’ years and I could think of _one_ thing you like that’s just yours, that I didn’t like, forcibly imprint on you when you still thought Sam and I were normal fucking people— do you even know how shitty that makes me?”

“It’s fine Dean.” He repeats, finding his voice, and carefully empties his glass of water with only the barest tremble to his fingers, straightening his napkin, picking at his fingernails. “There was never time.”

“But I coulda made time. I mean, I made time when we needed something, you always made time for me— And I always had the balls to act like that’s how friends work, I taught you to lie, andI just used you _over_ and _over_ again.” He drags a hand over his eyes. “ _Fuck_.”

Cas looks down, this is too much, there’s too much to say, and he feels like if Dean keeps looking at him like that—

“There were more important things at stake.” It’s true, most things are inherently selfish in comparison to the world ending.

“Do you _really_ believe that?” The hunter shoves his plate away, taps the tablecloth, avoiding looking at Cas. “You know you don’t have to make excuses for me anymore, right? It makes you sound like a fuckin’ apologist for my life. Listen, I— I know down deep you’ve got human emotions rattling around, so just, _get mad_ , let me have it, rip me a new one. Just, tell me what you _want_ , what you _need_.”

Cas shrugs; keeps his eyes on his hands, the trembling has grown worse during Dean’s monologue, he tucks them under the edge of the table; his head is starting to throb, but the pain grounds him.. “I don’t— Dean— I…”

“Yeah I know. I _know_. You’re right… it’s _fine._ Let’s just do exactly what I’ve been doing for 12 fuckin’ years and sweep it all under the rug.” Dean clenches his hand around the beer bottle, drains it dry in one pissed motion. “I’m gettin’ another beer.” and stands up jerkily, knees knocking into the table, not waiting for a reply.

Cas watches him walk away, drained, and uncertain. He doesn’t know what Dean is trying to say, ****and if he were to answer the question Dean asked— _What I want—_ Something stirs at the base of his memories, familiar and cold, like an echo in a darkened room. Cas reaches for it, but it slips and squelches away.

Frustrated, he attempts to pour himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the table. His feeble human hands are shaking so badly, he’s spilling all over the clean white tablecloth.

 _Weak, frail, fragile, useless._ His mind chants, it sounds more like Dean’s voice now. _Useless, useless, useless._

Without warning, Dean’s hands are around his, warm and reassuring; steadying the pitcher, filling the glass without saying a word, without making a scene, pulling his napkin off his chair and mopping up the scattered water.

When he sits again, his green eyes aren’t angry, “You gotta lay off the sauce Cas.” He winks; it’s his way of apologizing for his outburst.

Castiel lets out a small gust of air through his nose, letting himself infinitely appreciate Dean’s ability to find humor in any situation no matter how painful. It happened more often in the early days, before the betrayals, lies and pain. The hunter would find his eyes and smile like they shared a secret, making references that half the time Cas didn’t even understand. Their bond allowed Cas to sense the intent, to feel unexpected kindness rather than pity aimed toward the awkward celestial.

Dean doesn’t mention the spilled water; the way that Cas’ hands shake, or the way that any loud patron makes his head jerk up with panic. He just pats his knee, holding it until it stops bouncing— and cracks a joke, chattering about the fact that the hipsters actually do a pretty good job of making a burger and a nice stout, mentioning the little mechanic shop next to the coffee shop right up the road, how fun it might be to walk from work to nice hometown bar to get a beer.

Cas listens, and tries to ignore the way his hand stays comfortingly on his knee, wishing there was a way he could wrap himself in the voice of Dean Winchester and just stay there until he felt like himself again,

* * *

It’s only when they are walking back out into the twinkling lights of Main Street, breath rising faintly between them, that the other shoe drops.

Dean Winchester dithers on the sidewalk, “Cas, how about let’s walk… I gotta, I gotta talk to you about something.”

The simple phrase knocks the air out of the angel, he’s suddenly exhausted like he’s run a marathon.

 _This_ makes so much more sense than what the bartender had said, _this_ was Dean’s way of letting him down easy. All of the kindness of the last few days, the random, tiny, half-dead plants showing up outside his room, the dinner, the drives, the absurd amount of time Dean has spent just hanging out in his room or pulling him into the in the kitchen while he cooks and chatters and _smiles_.

 _You are Human_. His mind whispers sadistically. _You’re useless to him if you’re not a weapon. You’re not an Angel, not a Hunter, you are broken and sucked dry by the Empty, weak and shattered._

Anguish rises like a thick cloud, suffocates him, his knees buckle. Up ahead Dean continues to walk and stutter his way through the preamble to his thoughts, oblivious.

Cas has to get away. But there’s only these tiny snow swept streets, glittering lights overhead and—

“Cas— _what the hell—_ hey what’s wrong, why are you— let’s— let’s get over to this bench…” Strong arms grip him tightly and haul him over to the nearest empty bench. Carefully brushing the snow away and calling out to concerned passers-by that Cas was just a little too tipsy.

As soon as the back of his legs hit the solid reassuring surface, Cas attempts to extricate himself from the hunter’s grip. Trying to be as premeditated as possible, knowing that he shouldn’t have let himself grow used to basking in the warmth of Dean Winchester.

“ _Dean_.” He bursts out, teeth clenched, fighting the anxiety, locking away the deep seated emotions in the lowest part of his heart. “You don’t have to say it, I’ll pack my things.”

If he wasn’t so torn up with emotions he might have noticed the way Dean’s mouth falls open in confusion.

“Cas, No, what the _hell?”_ He reaches out toward Cas’ face, faltering midway, choosing to lay his hand nervously on the bench between them, his pinky just brushing against Cas’.

“No, that’s not— _Sam and Eileen_ , they wanna make the bunker, like, a—a—bed and breakfast for like— for hunters. You know, a place to rest, to swap information, a library, maybe even a bar… they’re talking about maybe changing how hunters work— making it better— and Cas, i’m gonna be honest with you, I, I think I’ve earned it. We need a break,”

Cas frowns, Dean works his jaw soundlessly, he knows he isn’t making much sense,

“From me?”

“What? Why? Why would I want to— from _you_ Cas? I just got you back like a week ago?” Dean clenches his fists. “What the— I took you to a damn _hipster_ bar for crying out loud… can you just let me finish my damn thought before you start jumping to conclusions?”

Castiel winces at the hunter’s anger. At least they are back in territory he feels accustomed to: Dean angry with him about something neither of them completely understand. It is far more familiar than whatever had been happening the past few days.

Dean lunges back in, “So, uh, Eileen and Sam. They’re a couple now, you _know_ that. You already know that…um, and Sam— Sam seems to think that he wants to stay, to carry on, you know, and maybe keep doing the family business, but you know… _better_ , without all the neglect and abuse and shit.” Dean sighs, his hand is still tapping the cold bench, occasionally brushing Cas’ warm hand as though for reassurance, for whom is unclear.

Cas stays stiff, barely keeping his breathing under control, his humanity making him react so intensely to touching Dean. “Anyway… I don’t, I don’t really know if I want to do it anymore.”

“It?”

“Hunt… y’now full time. I think I just want to rest for a while. Maybe work on cars, learn to do some simple stuff, work with my hands, Drink beer, fish, sleep in, own a dog. We got a dog— I told you that right?”

Cas’ head turns into the regular soft tilt, Dean’s face warms, a smile creeping it’s way in, and continues less awkwardly.

“I found this house couple miles away… well… to be honest, Sam really found it, and may or may not have ganked some uh ghosts lingering, so we got it real cheap… and it would take a lot of work—” He clears his throat nervously working his way to whatever he’s most anxious about asking. Classic Dean Winchester behavior.

“Dean.” Cas interrupts tiredly, _is all of human existence just weariness_? the slightest burble of annoyance rising to the surface. “I cannot fix your house with Angel mojo. I am… mostly human, Useless to you.” He wills himself to stand.

 _How do humans even manage being upset_? Everything is so much more embarrassing when he can’t even zap out of this space toward the bunker, and the concept of human distance still makes his head hurt. _Everything makes his head hurt._

A part of him, a sad pathetic part of him, hopes Dean will not let him walk away, which would be the opposite of classic Dean behavior.

It starts to snow.

 _Perfect._

At least the hunter had badgered him enough to wear the blue scarf, and thicker socks _‘in case the chucks rub’_. There is a solid chance he won’t freeze to death on his trudge back to the bunker.

Before he can take more than three steps Dean is seizing his wrist and whipping him around. Dean honestly looks to be a healthy mix between pissed and exasperated.

“ _Stop it_ Cas. Why do you keep trying to fuckin’ run off? I’m fucking trying to tell you something.” Dean closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and the next time he speaks he is more careful, his voice quieter and less annoyed. “I wanted to ask if you— If you wanted to maybe, I dunno, _stay_ here and work on the house— together… with me.” He bites his lipand waits, looking as uncertain as the angel feels. “Not like, for your angel magic just… you.”

Dean’s so close, their warm breath converges into a single steam cloud.

As an Angel, if Castiel noticed that the hunter’s eyes were beautiful, or considered that the gentle smattering of freckles resembled a galaxy where light had not even reached, or even observed Dean’s delicate, but broken nose or the expressive bow of his lips… Well, those thoughts could be defined as appreciating his father's creation.

At present, with humanity and hormones thundering through his veins and Dean’s mouth inches away from his. He just _felt,_ felt _everything._

And it felt like falling, it felt like flying, it felt like faith.

“Okay.”Cas says,telling himself it’s mostly because he is overwhelmed by the concept of walking home as opposed to anything else.

Dean’s answering grin flashes bright at the tiny extension of hope.

“So, you wanna see it? It’s right up the road. We can— you wanna look at the lights first?”

“I— I would like that.”

* * *

“So… how’d it go with Cas?”

Minutes before Cas had entered, nodding at Sam and Eileen, she has her feet propped up in Sam’s lap, pouring over bunker schematics and planning in low tones. The Angel had greeted them politely, looking flushed and confused, waiting just long enough to be acceptable before making a break for his room.

Dean appears a few moments later looking equally as flustered. Hair wet from the snow and wind. He just stands there stiff-armed, gaze vacant, but clearly unharmed. Sam shrugs at Eileen and turns back to their charts.

“ _Ikissedhim_.” Dean announces too loudly, his voice cracks like a teenager, clears his throat, tries again.

Eileen being the absolute intuitive dream that she tends to be, signs something carefully to Sam with raised eyebrows and heads in the direction of the kitchen, taking the laptop with her. Sam watches her go with adoration, still unsure how a guy like him had managed to end up with a partner like her.

He waits a moment; turns back to the task at hand.

After their final altercation with Chuck, he and Dean had gotten wasted and drunk-serious and promised to break their cycle of stupid fights and poor communication and _try_ to talk things out like healthy adults.

But this… well, he hadn’t guessed _this_ would be on that list of talking points.

“ _Okay_.” Sam holds out the syllable, nodding with fake confidence, giving himself a second to think. “I might need a little back story bud.”

Dean scrubs his hair and paces, pouring himself a glass of whiskey, taking a sip. He sets it back down, walks two feet away and then stomps back and picked it up again, draining it.

“So, I did what you said, I uh, I took Cas out, like, to this snooty place downtown… I mean it’s no _Olive Garden_ but like… not like the places _we_ normally go.”

“And then you… kissed him?”

“No.” Disgust passes over his face at the suggestion. “God no, Sam, we got there, and the bartender, she definitely thought Cas and I were on a date…”

“I mean… for all intents and purposes…”

“Intensive purposes…”

“For the last damn time Dean, that is _not_ the saying—“

“— _Anyway_.”

“Right, sorry, so you got freaked out cause the hot gastropub chick thought you were on a date with a guy?” Sam wrinkles his forehead in confusion. “And the logical next step in this scenario was to… kiss him?”

“Not _at_ the gastropub, I’m not an animal Sam—”

“ _Dean.”_

 _“_ Okay… so the thing is…” He throws a hand up, pointer finger raised for emphasis. “I knew she thought it, and then I kinda realized it was sorta true, and it really didn’t bug me. The idea of being on a date with Cas… it felt kinda… right?”

Sam’s eyebrows jump. “You’re handling this very calmly for… well… you.” Sam internally considers, silver, holy water, hex bags.

“Way to be supportive _Samantha_.” Dean’s voice has dropped into that withering, hoarse tone he uses when he’s trying to be sincere and in the process has sort of panicked himself.

“No Dean, you’re right.” Sam rotates so his whole focus is on his brother, smiling apologetically. “I’m sorry. People change, and If there’s anyone who should be able to acknowledge it, it’s us— Okay, hot hostess, Date with Castiel… keep going…”

“Hot, is maybe—uh, I guess she was pretty, I mean, I wasn’t really paying att—honestly I think she mighta been checking out Cas, even though he was obviously on a date with me—”

“Focus buddy.”

“Right” A minor flush colors Dean’s cheeks. “Uh, So we ate, and Sam, the _beer_ was actually—“ Sam shoots him another look. “Ri- right,— um, anyway, I think he really liked it… actually no, well, I—Ithink he might have hated it… _maybe_ … it’s hard to tell right now with him half feathers and half feelings…So we uh, went for like, a walk downtown, cause the lights are up for the holidays and Cas likes sparkly, hopeful, shit like that— it was real nice, Sam, you should take Eileen before—“ Sam clears his throat, Dean reroutes.

“So I told him about the house out by the lake, and you guys’ plans for the bunker. And he kinda flipped out and thought I was kicking him out, I explained about… semi-retirement, and he seemed to chill out a little. I thought we were good— so I uh , took him out to the house and showed him what I wanted to do to it and he was just standing there in that stupid scarf I got him and listening to me ramble about what I wanna do to it, and lookin’ at me all blue-eyed, and I just… went with my gut.”

“And that meant… you kiss—”

“— _Yeah_ I kissed him Sam.” Dean looks like he stuck a fork in a toaster now that he’s said it out loud. “Yep, I did… that thing I just said.”

“Dean this is, it’s pretty huge… I mean, when did you start you know uh, having these sort of feelings…” Sam winces, this is absolutely uncharted territory and this coming from a family that spent most of the last year trying to kill god.

“About Cas or about guys?” He watches his little brother’s eyes widen.

Honestly, this was possibly the most fucking awkward way of sharing this strategic little tidbit he's been holding so close to his chest that he nearly talked himself out of believing it exists, but _hey_ , why not? And there’s this perverse little voice in his head that keeps saying, maybe, _maybe_ if he could get it right this time, he would deserve to be happy. Dean pushes through, steadying himself.

“Sam do you remember when dad caught me holding hands with…nah, you probably don’t, you were still pretty young then.”

“Dad caught you… with a guy?”

Dean sits up straighter, nervous and fidgety. “Yup. I think we were like…I was… like what, 14… 15? He wasn’t supposed to be back from his trip that soon. He uh--“ His face curls slightly at the memory, he can’t help it, he rubs his neck, clears his throat “He wasn’t pleased.”

“Why didn’t you just leave?”

Dean fixes with him a stare. The unspoken reason lies heavy, they both know he wouldn’t ever have left his little brother. Sam smiles tensely, trying to make it look supportive, they don’t talk much about their dad anymore for good reason.

“You know Dad was absolute shit at everything except hunting… after mom.”

Dean takes a gulp of his whiskey and nods, staring at the wall, not seeing. “Uh-huh.”

“So? Have you always?” Sam sounds like a stereotype, _knows_ that he sounds like a stereotype. He’s screwing this up so much, maybe they should just stay repressed. Avoid their feelings. Like men.

Dean shrugs, apparently past the point of being bothered by his brother’s awkwardness.

“I dunno it wasn’t really the time to explore— After _that_ happened, Dad kicked me out and left me to stew by myself for a couple weeks. When he showed back up he pretended it never happened, finally started treating me like a hunter, threw out all my kid stuff.” He sucks his teeth and rattles the ice in the glass. “I think he thought I needed toughening up.” He looked like he’s tasted something foul,

“At the time it was either figure out what all these things mean for me, stay out with a dude, get caught, get the shit kicked out of me by Dad, _or_ show up late cause of a girl; get a sigh and and a talking to about _puberty_ and condoms and maybe a high-five.” He rolls his shoulders. “I mean Sam, I was a kid, and it was like 95’, times were different.”

He shrugs, “The older I got the more I wanted to be like him, and being into guys definitely didn’t fit that. Plus I liked girls just fine, so I uh, made it work… it was just another thing to be ashamed of about myself.”

Dean sits and drinks quietly, refilling his glass for the third time, staring.

Sam takes a breath and lets himself appreciate these small moments when Dean lets him past the cool facade.

_Never mind, talking is good._

“Dean, being _bisexual_ isn’t something to be ashamed of.”

“Yeah. _I know_ Sam,” Dean snaps, meeting Sam’s eyes for the first time since they started. “But saying it is one thing, and getting through all the weird self-belief shit is different. There’s still a little part of me that expects Dad to come bustin’ through the door ready to kick my ass for even _thinkin’_ about shit like this. It’s a fuckin’ process jackass.”

Dean lets out a shaky breath, snickers unexpectedly. “Damn, when did you google ‘how to talk to your sibling when they come out?’ I didn’t even notice.”

“Jerk.” Sam snipes. But he isn’t wrong.

“Bitch.” Dean replies, always. And they’re okay again.

“So Cas?”

Dean shrugs, more at ease now, rolling his whiskey around in his glass, posture casual, like he hadn’t just revealed something beautiful and vulnerable about himself.

Sam wants to hug him, or tell him how proud he is, but an exposed Dean is also something of a cryptid. Sam is equally concerned that if he moves too suddenly his brother will just scamper into the darkness of his room like a frightened deer, and come out acting like the poster child for toxic masculinity.

He gives Dean a few minutes, refills his own drink and sits, this time closer to his brother.

Dean finally looks up and takes a deep breath, nervous and stuttering, gaining confidence the longer he speaks,

“I mean.. Cas is… _Cas_. You know how he is… When he first— when he first, _saved_ me, when we got back topside, we, uh, we had this weird connection. You know I, I had— had a lot of trouble, trying to figure out life— cause, living a longer time in hell than I had on earth it really fucks with your melon, not to mention uh, what…what I did there.” Dean’s voice grows small, filled with shame, like it always does when he talked about his time below.

“Sometimes when I got real bad, just, just, having him in the room with me helped, no nightmares.” He shrugs. “So I didn’t mind as much as I acted, and it was something I could trust, he _always_ came when I asked. He did whatever I— what I needed.” His voice is hoarse. “And that was after he, he saw all of me—the worst of me— he still stayed,still chose to rebel against heaven, against his family for me.”

“That’s… I mean…” Dean shrugs, unable to find words, “It was always, just you and me and Bobby, and you guys never had a choice in sticking up for me, or, or getting screwed by knowing me, being _near_ me, I was your blood. But Cas _knew_ what he was getting into and— and he chose it anyway. I gave him hell about it early on, didn’t always understand him, but I knew deep down, he was trying his best… And then all the other shit happened.”

Sam knows this isn’t the time to argue with Dean about how wrong he is about his own worth, another time, “So what changed.”

“Uh, I uh, I knew, I knew something was different, after I came back— when I saw me, and Cas from the like alternate timeline shitscape back in ’09—”

* * *

_Dean stops dead, staring in confusion at the cabin door where Not His Cas emerged. The sun hadn’t even made it up over the treetops, the rest of the camp is still sleeping peacefully— Cas nods at him sagely, leisurely buckling his pants. Apparently unperturbed by being caught, lighter already in hand, eyes foggy and unreadable in the early morning._

_He watches Dean while he lights his joint, dirty fingernails cupping the flickering flame with surprising dexterity, all the while his eyes linger._

_The hunter shifts on his feet nervously, still unused to the way Other Cas looks at him. This Cas’ eyes are curious, but not in the careful, nearly reverent way which His Castiel gazes. This is far more invasive, indolently calculated._

_At first Dean attributed the difference to his humanness. Perhaps Cas’ usual alien tendencies had been both dulled by being unmade into human flesh, and exacerbated by years of substance abuse— Yet—Other Cas had known in the space of a glance that this younger Dean wasn’t his._

_The man in question continues to observe in cold amusement as Dean’s attention darts wide-eyed between the cabin and the man sitting on its steps. Cas waits for observation to trickle into full realization, humming a familiar tune absent-mindedly while he smokes._

“Singin in the dead of night…”

_Toneless, and soft, he blows smoke from his nose and tilts his head back. There’s an new, ugly, wine dark bruise on the paper skin underneath his jaw._

“Take these broken wings—“ _His voice cracks very slightly, “_ And learn to fly…” _He remembers softer times, waking to those words being sang into his skin. A lifetime ago, when he had been someone worth sharing memories with._

_Dean’s shiver cuts into the echo, though it’s unclear if the response is from realization or the weight of Cas’ gaze._

_“Isn’t that—that’s not your….cabin” Dean’s voice is uncertain, “Isn’t that_ his _, my…” The hunter rubs his head, palming his dirty hair in a distaste that doesn’t fit here in this world of perpetual filth. “Fuck, this alternate universe shit is way too much.” Despite his rough words he’s too clean, Cas thinks, too pure for this place._

_Other Cas grins as answer, a wide, eye-crinkling, gummy smile, stretching and standing to lean against the fence next to Dean. He takes a long drag on his homemade smoke and places a single, comforting hand on Dean’s shoulder, pats him absently like you would a nervous dog._

_“I nearly forgot how much I loved younger you.” Cas says, “_ So _easy to read, emotions right out on your sleeve. Now look at us: so different in our twilight years... Freaky Friday 2: Croat Edition.”_

_Whether out of the absurdity of the situation or the fact that Castiel made a pretty solid pop culture reference, Dean coughs in surprise and it turns into a laugh, ringing out deep and throaty—_

_Cas startles, visibly stricken by the sound, turning toward the music of Dean Winchester’s laugh, nearly forgotten and buried under the pain and guilt of every survivor they’ve lost. Unthinking his hand slides from Dean’s shoulder to frame the hunter’s neck._

_Dean goes still, mouth ready to form a snarky comment, ready to pull back to a safe distance, and crack a joke so he can get his heart rate under control. But the way Cas’ thumb traces across the skin beneath his cheekbones gives him pause._

_Dean’s breath catches, the fallen angel’s touch is not the nervous movement of a yearning celestial or the practiced flirtation of a self-proclaimed heathen. The contact is intimate, half-forgotten, as though Cas has done it a thousand times before._

_“Dean.” He says, more serious than the hunter has seen in their limited time together. “No matter what happens today— please— in your own life, be happy. Let yourself be a little selfish.”_

_Dean sees in the blown pupils and faded grace, something deeper, feels the familiar awe of being granted an audience with something ancient and irreparably damaged. It draws him in, a willing victim._

_Dean blinks, looking away, purposefully snapping the moment—_ Not my Cas. Not his Dean— _shifting his weight so that Other Cas’ Hand slips back to a safer space on his shoulder. Cas’ eyes soften, but he allows it._

_“So uh... Other Cas, Castiel?”_

_“Cas.” He corrects coldly, “I am not ‘of God’ anymore.”_

_The tension ebbs, feels like less-risky territory when he vocalizes the insane nature of their reality, all the while hoping Cas doesn’t notice how his voice shakes. “Did you spend the night in my—in his Cabin?” Dean can’t quite pin down what he feels about the answer he already knows, or why he wants to hear the former angel admit it out loud._

_The lazy grin reappears: noncommittal and flirtatious._

_“Spoilers,”He winks, “You hate those.” The joint smolders, clenched between his teeth, he straightens the black cord around his neck in a nervous tick, and clears his throat. When he finally settles, he chooses to answer the question._

_“Dean, uh,_ my _Dean,” His eyes roll dramatically. “Whatever, ‘Our fearless leader’ merely asked me to ‘look over’ his plan of attack for today. He doesn’t do that so much anymore, what with all the—“ What follows is a flurry of gestures, various smoking motions, an injection, vague swallowing movement. “So, I would say, as ‘camp strategist’, it’s more of a ‘marking of territory’ than anything. You know how he is.” A flat giggle at his own excessive air quotes, he meets Dean’s gaze, as if challenging him to make comment, rolling the lit cigarette thoughtfully between his fingers._

_Dean wonders who taught him to smoke._

_“What, because of_ me _?” Dean scoffs, hackles raised, annoyed with how easily Cas smirks and dodges any real kind of answers. Talking with him is like herding cats; the other man know it, another puff of dense smoke, this time a ring floats up between them. “And of course you went.” Dean spits, more angrily than intended._

 _For a split second, the haze of drugs and sarcasm lifts; in their place only yearning and sadness. In this stranger’s face, there is_ his _Cas. Awkward, angular, stoic, innocent, wide-eyed, vulnerable, all trapped in one finite vessel._

_Dean almost smiles— warmed by the first thing that’s felt like home since he arrived in this hellscape._

_The former angel straightens to his full height, and though Dean knows it isn’t possible in this fallen world, reality itself seems to bend around him. Thunder rumbles in the distance, lightning dances in their peripherals._

_A long moment passes, Dean staring at Cas, smile forgotten in the wake of trying to remember how to breathe._

_“I_ always _come when you call.” Cas rumbles, answering the nearly forgotten accusation, sounding more like himself, the blue of his eyes sparks fiercely, daring Dean to deny it._

 _The moment passes, Cas flicks his cigarette, scowls at its length, smashing it out against the rough wooden supports with surprising aggression. “But you already know that, don’t you? Angel me was even more whipped for_ thee Dean Winchester. _” He turns his gaze reluctantly back to the young hunter._

 _The casual insult about Cas—_ his Cas _, stings._ _Dean ignites, words spilling before he thinks._

_“Even though you and I both know he’s sending you on a suicide mission today?” It’s a low blow, but the quick glimpse of something familiar makes Dean grasp pathetically for more._

_His anger is all it takes to drive away the last vestiges of clarity in Cas’ face. In his place, a casual, slouching, unfamiliar being watches from behind an impenetrable expression of protective disinterest._

_The only evidence of the former angel’s discomfort is the way his empty hand plays with the edge of his necklace,_

_“It makes sense though,” Cas muses, pushing at the conversation neither of them want to continue, deft fingers pulling out one of those pocket bibles they used to leave in empty drawers inside hotels. He opens it one-handed, thumb tucked into the center, ripping out a page and carefully rolling it into another cigarette,_

_“_ Our fearless leader _only has time for useful toys these days.” Tone remains flippant, belying the bitterness of his words, “Sadly, I represent only one thing to him: Weakness.”_

_He smokes for such a long time that Dean almost thinks he’s forgotten they’re talking. “We were together the night Sam went to face Lucifer. Dean and I, left Sam alone for one night; didn’t even realize he’d left until the next morning. Too late.” Cas offers no further explanation, no clarification, seemingly content with smoking his weed and watching the sun rise. He finishes the cigarette in silence and rolls another, but this time his hands tremble._

_“This, is where I will do the most good, such as I am now.” He murmurs, “If Dean needs a sacrifice, I will lay myself on his altar and bleed.” Cas flinches, as though he forgot he was saying those things out loud, rubs his own arms against the chill. He doesn’t wait for whatever platitudes Dean might offer, slipping the lighter back into his pocket and taking a deep drag in one fluid motion._

_He snorts from behind a cloud of smoke at the horror on the younger hunter’s face._

_Dean really does want to say something, but Cas has already turned toward the dull thud of boots and the slam of the door._

_His alternate self stops short in the doorway, clearly surprised to see the two of them standing so close. It isn’t hard to tell he’s not happy about it. He stares hard at Dean, an inscrutable emotion in his eyes._

_Seemingly against his will, the Older hunter’s eyes stray to Cas, and for the barest instant something passes between them, something so private that Dean feels like he shouldn’t be watching._

_Other Dean clears his throat and spits, and stomps uncaringly down the remaining steps,_

_“We’re leaving in ten Winchester” he calls gruffly over his shoulder without a backward glance. “You two can ride together since you’re bffs now.”_

_Dean looks over at Castiel, witnessing the way his blue eyes never lose track of the hunter’s receding back until he turns a corner and is out of sight completely. His forgotten cigarette smokes faintly. Cas sniffs and rubs his eyes with a grungy hand._

_“People change Dean.” He says, still staring the way the hunter had gone. “It’s the only thing that stays the same in this world, even here at the fuckin’ end of it.”_

_“But you don’t.” Dean argues, he wants to talk him out of it; to save him, to prevent this from happening._

_Cas shakes his head, already up and moving toward the meeting spot, he turns, a semi-automatic casually thrown over his shoulder, and smiles a crooked sort of smile._

_“I will.” He says, sincere and sad. "You always change me."_

* * *

_You changed me. you changed me. you changed me._

Dean can almost hear the oozing sound of darkness.

“You never really talked about the Cas there,” Sam says, pulling Dean out of the memory “Or any of it really, other than what happened to me”

“Yeah well I’m pretty sure, Other Dean and Other Cas were sorta together.”

“Together together?”

“Yup.” Noncommittal and toneless.

“So you felt something then, and you didn’t act on it for… 10 more years because?”

Dean tightens his lips. “Cause I fucking ruined him— if I let myself… if we, if… I just, I _know_ what I do to the things I touch. Cas, he was no different, he died for me, he came back, he died, I rip him out of his happy dean-free existence, and then just dump him—” _Lost the moment he touched Dean Winchester in hell._

“But… the worst was seeing what I did to him _there_. I couldn’t let _that_ happen to him. Seeing him like that, it helped keep everything in perspective. All I knew is that he was _always_ happier without me in his life, And honest to god— Sammy, I thought he could only feel things like _that,_ while he was human. So, ’09, I get back home; Cas is back to being his normal weirdo Angel self, and I— I was safe, _he_ was safe. And I just stopped. Cut it off at the head and let him live.”

“Is that why you were so much of an asshole to him anytime he was human? You wanted to keep him as far away from you as possible. Just in case? And, Dean, the Emmanuel thing wasn’t—”

“Don’t _you_ start trying to explain my shit personality away either. Yeah, kicking him out of the bunker was… I don’t have any excuse for that shit.” He doesn’t. All the rationalizing in the world won’t excuse him from kicking him to the curb like that.

“So now?”

“I don’t know Sam. I’ve lost him, I’ve hurt him, I lied and used him— and he still— he still loved me the whole…” Dean’s hands ball into fists at his side. “Jack brought him back, and it felt like… a chance.”

“ _So then_ you kissed him.” Sam states, like it all made sense now,

“Yep.” He fidgets pleasantly, and the edges of his lips curling upward. “And Sammy, dude, let me tell you, kissing _him_ , I mean, _Wow_ — if I woulda known— let’s just say Angels and Airwaves woulda been playing in _my_ cassette deck twenty-four fuckin’ seven—”

“—Dean. For the love of… Jack, stop—“

“Come on Sam—“

“Seriously— I don’t— _10 years_ I’ve had to deal with your ‘will they won’t they’ slowest burn of all time bullshit, staring at each other like.” He shudders. “Listen, I am _so_ happy you decided to… _be_ happy. But I don’t want to know about your… cassette deck.” He grimaces. “Which doesn’t actually make any— why would _he_ be in your—” For a split second he gets it, “You know what actually, it’s fine. Moving on.”

Dean opens his mouth to protest and Sam shakes his head firmly.

“So— how did he react?” He says slowly.

“I don’t know… He _definitely_ kissed back, it was so… Yeah, yeah, I know, _moving on_. And then he just stopped. Did his icy glare thing, told me he wanted to go home. Walked out the damn door and got in the passenger seat.”

“You didn’t try to…”

“No Sam. I didn’t— me talking to you about this is like the last thing I wanted to do tonight. But if I go in there and try to talk to him about it tonight…” Dean trails off, shakes his head. “I know I’ll fuck it up even more than I already have.”

“I appreciate it though.”

“What?”

“The talking.”

“Yeah well. I need another drink. Goddamn chick flick nonsense.”

Sam’s wheels are already spinning. “If Cas doesn’t remember the Empty, or how he got there, do you think he might still think the deal he made is still in effect? So if he’s happy…like happy happy?”

They sit in silence.

“You gonna tell him?”

“I don’t know man, what if he thinks that the only reason I’m…”

“Flirting?” Sam supplies. “Wooing?”

“Fuck you, _whatever,_ maybe, doing _that_ with him is cause I feel like, some sort of… _obligation_.”

Sam knows what he’s about to say is gonna piss Dean off, but, “I mean, is it? You’re sure all of this isn’t your overactive sense of guilt talking?”

The look Dean gives him answers the question.

“Hey dude, don’t shoot the messenger, just a couple days ago you were still processing the fact that he told you he loved you _—_ And talking it out like this has been,” He blows air through this nose. “Honestly it’s been great—weird as hell, but great. I just don’t want you rush into having something with Cas, because you’re actually letting yourself _feel_ for the first time as an adult.”

“Oh, so suggesting I give him _my clothes_ to wear, and to take the guy on a date was what? I was born at night, but not _last_ night.”

Sam chuckles,

Honestly, their Bobby would have _loved_ this, “I mean you still did all the stuff I suggested.”

“Cause they were damn good ideas, and I’m a little rusty at… this.”

Sam has no idea what to say to that.

“I’m just gonna be honest Dean, and please don’t get pissed…again. I’m trying to work through this _and_ make sure you’re not… possessed, or under a spell.” Another glare. “Again, super happy for you, but like what the hell? I have _never_ seen you like this—”

“—If I am going to do this for him, I want it to be good.” He mutters, embarrassed.

“Want _what_ to be good?” Pandora’s box, sirens booming in Sam’s head.

Dean’s mouth stretches down and he shrugs. “Well… I guess the being happy… being in uh…”

Static, _fuck_ , even after all this talking.

“I don’t know what I’m doing either— But I do know that I don’t want it to be like it was before. I don’t want to hurt him anymore.”

“You’re… committed to this.”

“It’s Cas.” Dean states, like that is the only answer. “I don’t think he’s ever had like… a relationship,”

“Oh” Sam remains neutral. “What about him and Meg? And that other chick...”

The look on his brother’s face could sour milk. “If I can’t do, whatever— _feelings—_ better than some _demon_ — and the other chick literally tortured him after sex , not in a good way, and I stabbed her. To death _with his knife. Reaper bitch._ “

Sam doesn’t have enough time to unpack all the deep underlying things in _that_ statement, latching instead on the simpler one.

“—Dean you aren’t trying to… date Castiel, to have a measuring contest with Meg, who is… very dead, right?”

His brother eyes him flatly,“If the guy has been in love with me for 12 years, and was willing to just… be near me and get nothing out of it, and think he couldn’t ever have what he wanted…” Dean’s voice softens, and it takes him a minute before he continues. “Cause he thought I was some sort of toxic repressed bastard.”

He sees Sam’s face and nods “I mean _yeah_ , but i’ve changed and grown. okay? And he believed in me, believed in a better me, Wanted me to be the _best_ me.” He sniffs and sighs. “Isn’t that sort of what we’re all looking for really?”

“Amazing how trauma and falling in lo—" Dean looks at him sharply. " _Feelings,_ helps a guy get his head out of his ass.” Sam says dryly.

“Shut up jackwad. I’m never telling you anything ever again.” Dean frowns. “And Sam, when you tell Eileen about this later… do me a fuckin’ favor and _try_ to make me sound a little badass.”

* * *

**December 17**

Unsurprisingly, even with no major evil event lurking on the horizon, they manage to stay obnoxiously busy.

Sam is on the phone most days, hunters call in at all hours, asking for “the new bobby”. He tries to act all annoyed by it, but he's pleased, Dean knows. 

Eileen leads hunts on a weekly basis, joining up with the various men and women who stop in for advice and rest. She’s something of a legend to most, and Dean can’t help but agree. Sam is intensely proud of her, and Dean knows he does his best not to worry. His phone is a constant _ping ping_ of conversation and half smiles all the while she’s gone. Dean’s happy for them, damn power couple and all that nauseating badass shit.

To her amusement, most hunters have heard a variety of rumors about _the_ Winchesters. It ranges from the legend of the brothers who fought god, to the family who shared a home with a fallen angel.

Dean is thrilled by being called upon to tell taller and taller tales in response to their questions. Sam rolls his eyes, Eileen adds details with animation and laughing eyes. She laughingly tells him once that she had no idea she was dating redneck serial killer royalty; winks at Cas dramatically. Cas huffs, rolls his eyes and signs something that makes Eileen laugh.

Dean, looks between them with a petulant face until Eileen says it's too difficult to explain and Cas turns back to his book.

They open the Bunker for business, and he has to admit, it’s nice to have other people around, it feels lively, kinda like the _Roadhouse_ back in the day.

* * *

Cas keeps to himself for most of the first three days after "the date".

Sam unofficially seeks him out for advice or a brainstorm session. He’s been talking to Rowena about a safe way to tap the powers given to him by the yellow-eyed demon. They stay up late that night discussing, Dean resists the urge to listen at the door.

He goes on the defense the day that Rowena and Sam, bring he and Cas into the room and pitch the idea that there might be a way to begin partnering more trustworthy magic-users, seers, etc with hunters.

He bucks at it; wonders if they’re asking for trouble. Yes, it might broker an uneasy peace, maybe an alliance but at what cost? Sam argues that melding the wisdom of age and established power _and_ the ideology of protecting the weak, that they could protect _not_ just humans, but maybe the world too.

“We can’t be the only ones who hold the line Dean.” Sam’s eyes begged him to understand. “If we’re the only ones who can stop _whatever_ from happening then we can’t ever be really free of it…And you _know_ what it’s cost us.”

He does.It makes his skin itch, trying to have such an open mind. But he guesses maybe it’s fucking time. Maybe his dad and the men of letters were wrong.

Maybe that’s okay.

Cas hesitates off the to side, he’s been relatively quiet through their argument. Dean sees though that it’s taking a concentrated effort. Cas and Sam are both passionate about saving lives, so it doesn’t take long before his voice growls out careful suggestions, safeguards, alternate options. He was an incredible leader once, a strategist of heavenly skill, that’s more and more obvious in moments like these where he speaks with quiet and comfortable authority.

Dean listens from where he’s cleaning a gun and does his best not to get involved too much since Cas is actually talking with him in the fucking room.

They decide to call it Project Hermione. Within the afternoon, Sam and Cas invent a spell, combining Enochian and Sumerian, it prevents anyone who intends those in the Bunker harm from being able to find or enter it and allows any others to locate the bunker from anywhere in the world, if they know the right words.

They set three rooms on fire and accidentally initiate a lockdown protocol that seals the bunker off for the rest of the night. They have to call "not-quite-their-Charlie" to get the place up and running again.

When Eileen comes home from her hunt Sam tells her that it’s the first time in years that he doesn’t feel like a monster.

* * *

Dean does his best to keep himself busy, the hours falling into routine,

He starts his days by lingering in the bunker until it’s obvious he’s just waiting for the Angel to appear. Then he heads to the house to listen to Zepp at unhealthy volumes, freeze his ass off and work until he can’t see straight.

It’s super great. He loves it, getting loads of shit done and absolutely not dealing with anything in the meantime. It’s practically the dream.

But in all honesty, he _is_ really trying to give Cas space since... well _that,_ and Cas is apparently in full agreement. Painfully good at never being alone in the same room with Dean.

"It's like he's afraid I'm gonna try to jump his bones." Dean complained to Sam who grimaced slightly at the mental picture.

"Aren't you? You've been acting like a crackhead needing his fix for like a week man."  


"It's only been like four days and 7 hours." Dean hissed, catches Sam's pointed look "Oh fuck off." and headed out to Baby for another day of work at the house, throwing a hand up above his head as his way of saying goodbye

Moments later Cas oozed around the corner, checking the room carefully before fully entering.

"Is Dean... out?" He asks carefully, 

"Oh _Jesus Christ,_ you two." Sam slams the book shut, surprising Castiel, before stomping off. "Just _talk_ to each other." He shouts and doesn't wait for an answer.

* * *

“You gonna tell him about the Empty.” Eileen asks directly, sliding onto the bar and offering him a beer, Sam is downstairs in the firing range with Cas, they— _Sam_ — promises that it's just firing practice, nothing to do with another spell.

Dean shrugs, annoyed with the question. “It’ll come up eventually.”

She watches him and takes a sip of her beer. “So no.”

“You know Sam would have been more of an ass about it… beat around the fuckin’ bush for at least three more beers.“ His curdled look would intimidate most.

“I’m not Sam.” She replies unbothered. “Answer the fucking question.”

She signs the word _fucking_ , he knows because it’s the first word she taught him. _‘Figured you’d get a lot of use out of it.’_ She said with a lopsided smile, _‘the basics’._

Damn. He loves her.

Sam chose _fucking_ well.

“Not sure if it’s important.” He says. “He’s back, he’s healthy, he’s happy. _Shit_ , life is fan-friggin-tastic.”

“Is he?” She asks. “Happy?”

“He will be.” He nearly shouts surprising himself. “I’m gonna make sure of it.”

“By lying to him? Cause that always works out for you Winchesters.”

“What the _fuck_ do you know?” He’s getting louder, and she is unaffected, which feels like cheating really. Whoever might be nearby and unrelated to their drama quickly makes themselves scarce.

“Just being honest.” She says, he stops and rubs his head, and laughs down between his fingers. He has _no_ idea what he’s doing, all he knows is that he’s angry _again_ and that Eileen is wildly unimpressed.

“I don’t know,” He admits. “I want the chance to make it right. Now that I know how I...“

“Feel?” She supplies and he pulls a face.

“ _Fuck_. Maybe.”

Eileen shrugs. “I would want the truth from Sam. Might suck now, but it’s better than finding out later. Sam says you guys always make it out the other side. Trust that.”

He waves a hand dismissively, “Yeah. yeah. I hear you.”

"Is that a joke?" She asks, he cackles.

An explosion rocks the bunker, suspiciously coming from the direction of the firing range,

"What did Sam say they were doing down there?" He asks her, she's got her hand on the table, mostly annoyed by the spilled beer. _What a gem_.

"Pistol practice."

“Five fucking minutes.” Dean’s already on his feet, emergency lights blinking now. “All I want is just five peaceful damn minutes.”

* * *

The Bunker grows lively during the holiday season.

“I don’t mind.” Cas says simply when Sam checks on him. He has a feeling Dean noticed his consistent absence as space grows limited and sent his brother as a kindness.

“It reminds me of my garrison, _before_. Do not worry, I was not ' _in the middle of the action'_ then either.” He says by way of answer. Sam’s face crumbles with understanding, he doesn’t push unlike his extroverted brother, and draws Cas into a crushing hug.

“Well, we like having you around.” He reminds Cas, staring pointedly over at Dean who is mid-story, surrounded by a group of grumpy old men. “Whenever you feel like you’re ready.”

After that the Angel makes an effort, he sits off to the side, content to listen to the Hunters talk and laugh and reminisce.

* * *

Cas walks for hours in the snow to clear his head and breathe deep, It helps most times, being outside, able to see the sky. The Bunker had always represented safety and security, but since being back it has felt oddly stifling and now even the presence of Dean gives him a skittering sense of anxiety.

Twelve years he’s been near the Righteous Man, twelve years he’s been able to control himself, to conceal his desires.

Dean was always very good about creating his lines in the sand; clearly establishing his rules to make plain what he and Cas mean to each other.

 _Brother. Family. Best friend._

It has always been enough.

Now, Dean is acting so frustratingly different. His human heart aches to touch more than ever before, and there’s nothing to distract. He mopes and tries to stay out of Dean’s sight, as his behavior is becoming more and more erratic.

So he walks alone and talks to Jack. 

Cas discovers a pair of thick snow boots in his size outside his door one morning, a thick black beanie tucked into the left boot. One note says:

_'I know your ears get cold and shit'_

Next to it, a sticky note with step-by-step instructions on the right way to lace them and a tiny diagram of the holes and laces. 

* * *

It scares them half to death the first time Jack pops into the map-room smiling his happy Jack smile and waves. They don’t know what to say until he informs them seriously that he’s hungry and misses his family and heads immediately for the fridge.

"I do not believe this is interfering." He says unrepentantly, 

Dean is pretty sure nobody sees him get all misty-eyed, he clears his throat about four times and moves over to the stove, wishing not for the first time that he was better at being able to cry in front of others.

After that Jack shows up almost every night right around dinner time, eager to chatter about his day, asking about their lives, seeking advice about the best way to work with Amara, (Dean is less happy about this) but he sorta sees the point,

_Change is good. Change is great. We are free._

He says it so much to himself that he almost believes it.

He holds his tongue, lets Sam and Cas asked the pertinent questions.

Honestly though, he's been wrong a lot lately: he wouldn’t have guessed Jack would make such a kind god, but here he is sitting at their table, discussing his ideas on renovating heaven with Cas.Very little has changed about the kid since becoming one of the most powerful cosmic creatures in the known universe. He’s bubbly, empathetic, kind, and best of all, genuinely hopeful. Dean isn’t quite sure how their three dysfunctional asses raised such a great kid, and it’s clear by the way Cas looks at Jack he thinks the same thing.

Another added benefit is that Cas always comes to dinner when Jack is present. Non-obviously Dean manages to snag a seat where he can watch the angel interact with his— with _their_ son.

Cas as a father, shines. He listens and comments, and shares advice and jokes; even laughs at a couple Dean makes.

It shakes him up a little to notice new things about a man he's shared a considerable chunk of his life around. Kinda feels like realizing that you've been driving past your favorite restaurant every day for years because you were just bound and determined to eat somewhere familiar.

Cas is a wonder. A man of deep kindness and grace. He is a roman candle made flesh. Dean can barely tear his eyes away even when his heart races and his mind statics and all he hear is his father’s words screamed over and over.

The angel looks at him, feeling his eyes, and he drops his stare, acting like the food he’s eating is the most important thing in his world, ears burning, forcing himself to chew and nod until someone engages him in conversation.

_We are free._

He thinks, and looks up at Cas, 

_Dad is_ _gone._

Cas laughs widely at Eileen's quick hands, they're trying to teach Jack how to wink; something winds so tight in Dean's chest he can barely breathe.

_Change is good._

Cas' eyes pass over Dean and lock, brow furrowing very slightly, Jack is still talking. But everything else is very far away.

_I'm free._

This time, he doesn't look down.

* * *

**December 19**

“Hello Dean.”

He jumps, falling into the fridge. “ _Jesus Chri_ —Oh uh, hey there, Cas.”

He tries to ignore the way his ears flush, confident that Cas won’t notice in the semi-darkness.

It’’s earlier than usual. Dean casually tried to change up his schedule enough so that running into Cas inside the bunker wouldn’t feel like he was stalking the guy. It’s not like he _was_ —

He was.

Unfortunately, Cas usually learned his routines within a day or two and by then can skillfully avoid him.

“Dean are you unwell? You seem— fevered.” His eyes shine faintly like they could throw sparks if he was stirred up enough. He’s reaching instinctively toward Dean’s face, catches himself and drops his hand with a scowl.

“I am human.” He states, mostly for his own benefit.

“You don’t have to heal me every time I’ve got a boo boo” Dean goes for levity, usually is the best way to chill the Angel out, but the look on Cas’ face tells him it wasn’t the right move.

“You mean now that I’m _weak_ and _human_.” The angel spits. “Nothing but a ‘ _Baby in a trench coat’._ ”

“I mean, last time I checked, I’m also _weak_ and _human_.” Dean replies unbothered, pouring another cup of coffee, adding the cream and sugar the way Cas prefers, _preferred,_ the last time he was going halo-free. “And that never seemed to bother you enough not to stick around.”

“Because I could protect you.” Cas retorts roughly, his inflection indicating that this is _obvious_.

“Fair enough. But we don’t expect you to do that anymore.”

Another dark stare, Dean sees the beginnings of a disparaging self-comment on the angel’s lips. _Of course_ he took it in the worst possible way, and cuts him off. “Because maybe Cas, maybe we— maybe _I_ want to make sure _you’re_ okay for a little bit.”

The former Angel’s mouth snaps shut, his eyes dart to the hunter’s lips,

“Why?” He grinds out.

“Cause I care about y— what happens to you.” Dean says to his shoes, a compromise. He fucking hates his own cowardly guts. _You fought god for Pete’s sake_ , _just say it._

“Doesn’t matter if you’re human or angel, dumbass.”

“Is that why you…” Another brief glance at the hunter’s mouth, Cas blinks. “Did, what you did?”

“Kissed you.”Dean finishes, thrusting the cup of coffee at him along with an attempt at a smile, trying to make it less cocky than it felt. He can’t help it, he’s thrilled. It’s the first time he and Cas have spent more than two seconds alone in the same room since that night. He’s fucking _elated._

“Let’s call it what it is— I _kissed_ you, Cas, last thursday, in my living room. And honestly I’m pretty sure you kissed me back, so here we are.” If he says _kiss_ again his ears are going to burn off the sides of his head.

A spot of color appears on Cas’ cheeks, he frowns, steps closer, peering.

“I know that you are not cursed or hexed— I asked Jack to check— So I am going to ask again, Why? _That_ is not something ‘best friends’ do.” He spews the words furiously.

It’s not a question it’s an accusation, he’s stepping over all the neat lines Dean has so clearly drawn over the years and for once is demanding an answer.

Cas is angry, truly furious for the first time since he’s been back and damn… Dean’s hot all over. His mouth goes dry, and, well, Cas has been staring at him for years— nothing new, but _how in the seven hells_ did Dean not see it before this?He doesn’t stare at anyone else like this.

Dean’s ribs ache; he fights the urge to kiss him again, cause like, he’s not sure about much of anything lately but damn he wants to touch Cas again. A lot actually.

 _Consent dude._ He takes in a shaky breath.

Cas is staring at his mouth again and _fuck it all_. The same feeling he got that night waves over and he just knows— _I mean yeah stubble, and chapstick but also like, those stupid fucking blue eyes._

The front door bangs open; they hear Sam whistling and humming over the headphones. He’s been in a constant, fantastic mood since he and Cas started working on his Witching. _Asshole._

He comes around the corner and pauses at the threshold, sensing the tension, their closeness.

“Oh, _hey_ guys.” His eyes dart to Dean, asking silently what he’d walked into.

_Me, fucking having a horny meltdown about my best friend, thanks for asking dude._

“Dean, you’re up early.”

Dean shrugs guiltily, “Early start,” His voice cracks, he clears his throat twice, Cas is now more than six feet away. _Bastard._

“I uh was headed out to the highway down to the liquor store—“ He sticks a hand up and sips his coffee. “Don’t bitch face, I _know_ the owner there and he’s gonna let me borrow his pickup truck so I can move that hardwood out to the house— I’m doing the floors this week remember?”

“And what, You’re just gonna leave _Baby_ at his place for a couple days? _You?_ ”

“Yeah uh, Shane, he’s a nice guy, trustworthy— _steppenwolf tattoo_ — we are just gonna trade off for a day or two until I can get everything moved. Baby _is_ flawless beyond words but her trunk space is a little limited.” He whispers the last bit, as though she might hear.

“You can use my truck.”

They both turned to look at Cas, he shrugs, taking a drink of coffee, brows raising at the taste. “I saw it parked outside during my… walks. You may use it, Dean.”

Dean looks up, hopeful. “In that case, I might need help.”

* * *

Jack appears, without a noise, not even the telltale flutter of feathers.

“ _Fu—”_ Dean yelps, dropping his tools with a clatter, clutching his heart, remaining on his knees, sweat dripping off his forehead. _Goddamn celestials with their stupid fucking quiet skills._

“Jack, buddy, we talked about this—“ He sounds irritated, he _hates_ getting sweaty when it’s below freezing. Honestly, he’s hated cold weather since his time below. Makes his teeth hurt, his bones throb.

_Fuck getting old._

“Hi Dean.” Jack says with a wave and a grin, unperturbed and gleeful. He cranes his head around, peering at all the parts of the room he can see, a fire lights itself in the nearby hearth.

“Don’t play with fire.” Dean warns, ignoring Jack’s eyeroll.

“House looks nice, I like the paint, Where’s Cas?”

Dean goes back to working on the floors. “Not here.” His throat feels tight, mood darkening further.

“Oh. Weird.”

“Why would you think he was with me?” The hunter asks gruffly,

“His truck is outside. Plus, when we talk lately, we always talk about you. So…I just figured.”

“Oh do you?”

“Yes.” Jack’s eyes go wide. “I mean no. It is a secret.” He looks incredibly guilty, all of Dean’s sourness dissipates into affection. Even now that Jack’s the all-knowing master of the universe he’s still shit at keeping secrets from Dean.

“You’re all good buddy. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anybody.”

Jack’s young face relaxes and his sunshine smile returns. “It is perhaps better that he is not here. I have things to tell you.”

Dean grunts “Let’s hear it.”

“There is a problem, with Castiel.”

_Fear._

Dean’s already on his feet. His knees pop. “Is he okay?”

Jack nods. “He is safe. But you must help him.”

“Of course. I’ll do any—“ He swallows static and fear. “Yeah.Explain.”

“You prefer the short version?”

Dean nods, Jack continues,

“The Empty is very old and _very_ grumpy. It was tasked with a singular purpose from the beginning: to silence those who entered it’s domain. Amara thinks that Chuck gave the Shadow this role as punishment. But she’s not certain… the only we do know, is it feeds on grace and memories… regrets.”

“This is the short version?”

“Cas says context is _always_ important.”

Dean rolls his eyes, motioning rapidly for Jack to continue.

“When Castiel taken by the Empty, he had… foreknowledge of it, because of his deal—”

“—Wait, just one _goddamn_ second—Did you know about the fuckin’ deal too?” Somewhere Castiel is probably furious that Dean swearing in front of Jack.

“Don’t—“ Dean says sharply, “ _No_ , I don’t _care_ if you’re god now, you’re still not allowed to say it, and Jack, whining is for babies.” He sighs. “So, you knew about the deal… _everybody_ knew about the damn deal, apparently it was _the hot goss_ at the bunker, _continue_ please before I get even _more_ pissed.”

Jack watches him with concern.

“Not at you Jack.” Dean grouses. He wants to drink, he's embarrassed and annoyed and absolutely fuckin’ overwhelmed because literally everyone knew everything before him and he spent the last ten years being so far up his own asshole searching for the next bad guy that he missed all of it.

_Fuck. Maybe he became his Dad after all._

“Cas is special, _because_ he knew what was coming, he chose it. It seems that he sealed off a part of himself using some of his grace, he didn’t want the Empty to be able to see it, torture him with it and take it from him.”

It did all sound suspiciously on-brand for Castiel, stupid sonofabitch never knew how to make his life easier.

“ _Why_? What memory.”

“You, Dean.” Jack replies, no longer sunshine, but kind, and merciful all the same. “He saved his last moments with you.”

“Okay,” He pushes past what Jack is telling him, trying to think like a longtime Hunter, and absolutely not about what this new knowledge is doing to his heart. “So why doesn’t he remember now that he’s out?”

Jack frowns. “As long as he had grace and memories he would never completely sleep, and that meant the Empty could not rest; other Angels were starting to wake up—“

A sliver of pride, _of course_ Cas would start a revolution, even by accident. Funky little rebel.

“Okay?”

“Dean the Empty has one sole desire, to sleep.” Jack looks emotional. He’s just a kid saddled with literally everything. “What do you think it did to the one thing standing in its way?”

But Dean _does_ understand. He can still smell the sulfur, even 10 years gone, and he starts to understand the marks on Castiel, so slow to heal.

“That is why it took me so long to get to him. Cas kept burying it deeper and deeper inside him, and the Empty…” Jack trails off. “It was not happy.”

“Okay.” Dean can’t think about that now or he’ll get angry, and he’s already trying his hardest to keep himself from running all the way back to the bunker, though it’s still in limbo as to whether he kisses Cas or kicks his ass. “So what’s the problem?”

“His grace. He’s hidden it so deeply, I can’t forcibly retrieve it without harming him. It’s so intertwined with his memories of you, it would rip him apart.”

“So just top him off with Angel mojo and call it a day.”

Jack shakes his head. “That’s… not how it works Dean.”

“So… what?”

“He is not fully human, nor is he angel. It is… difficult for him in between. His vessel is…frayed. Amara is not sure how it will affect long term— but she’s certain that he will still eventually shatter, just slowly.”

The muscle in Dean’s jaw ticks. “What else does Amara say?”

“She says that Castiel is special, he’s left the empty _twice,_ he was able to resist the Shadow for so long. She thinks that restored, he may be able to wake the captive Heavenly hosts.”

“You want to send… Cas… _back_ into the Empty?”

Jack hears the fury, he’d told Amara that Dean would not be happy about this.

“To wake up… his dickhead family— most of whom, Cas _sent_ there?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t—“ Dean is doing his best here, he doesn’t want to upset Jack but, “You’re gonna trade _Cas_ for an _Army_?”

“Really Dean?”

_Oh, not upset._

Thunder rumbles, Jack’s eyes are faintly gold. “You think that of me? Cas is… he’s my _father_ Dean, just as much as you are—“

“So what?”

“Castiel’s time as god is one of his greatest regrets. He massacred thousands— many of those in his own garrison, his _family_. Doing so destroyed him as much as taking Sam’s burden did— Don’t you think he would want the opportunity to make it right?”

“But the Empty… Jack.” He leans back on his heels and sighs. “You _know_ I can’t lose him again.”

And Jack does, in some ways he always did.

“Dean.” He says kindly, always kindly. “If you had the chance to make right one of your biggest regrets… wouldn’t you take it?”

_I love you too. You can have me. You’ve had me._

He shakes his head stubbornly..

“I know. Dean.” Jack is touching Dean’s wrist. He looks so young. “He won’t be able to remember _that_ either, unless you help him. He won’t let himself be happy—”

“And maybe that’s okay!” Fear explodes out of Dean, manifesting in the only way he knows. “Maybe that’s _my_ punishment— you know? It’s what he had to do all those years… maybe it’s my turn. Protecting him, even if it means I can’t—“ But he hears the inconsistency in his own voice, he kicks the wall hard. How had Cas done it? Dean _feels,_ and it’s wretched.

“If he remembers—What if he thinks I’m not…” The words keep sticking at the top of his stomach, he looks around trying to find something to glare at, to focus on, to hate, but all he can think is that he’s fixing this damn house for _them_.

A hard lump settles in his throat, feels a lot like incoming tears. “What if he doesn’t want— He won’t stay.” He shakes his head certainly, and stares hard at his— _their_ son. “What if he he won’t— not here with me. Not after all of this, not after everything.”

 _And I’ll be alone again._

Jack is unreadable, he listens and watches, head tilting in that stupid way that makes Dean’s heart shred because Jack is _so_ much like him.

“It’s still his choice to make.” Jack says finally. “You taught him that.”

“Yeah.” His eyes burn and it’s just too damn cold. “Yeah I did.”

“So you’ll help?”

“Can I have a couple days?” Dean asks, before Jack can, beam off or whatever. “Before we… unscramble his eggs.”

“Of course.” Jack says, and unexpectedly pushes in for a hug, Dean holds on for a long moment. He misses the kid, more than he thought.

“Thank you, Dean.”

“Yeah kid.” He says, patting his head and sniffing “I know.”

* * *

Cas stares out at the snow and tries to clear his mind. It’s cold, even in the bunker. He’s grateful for the scarf and knit hat and warm clothes Dean had—

He sighs, closes his eyes, and tries not to think about Dean. Filling his mind instead with the best way to explain— to convince— the Winchesters _why_ he can’t stay. Why he _must_ leave.

It has to happen soon.

The wind picks up and feels like it’s blowing through his clothing with ease, he huddles crouched next to the tree.

But not tonight.

He’s too tired to argue with Dean tonight. He can’t let it sit for long, staying is too risky; his human nature makes him vulnerable. Now, with no purpose, and no war to win, it’s too easy to talk, to smile, to allow himself little daydreams.

These _feelings_ are always bubbling up, vying for the surface— it doesn’t help with Dean acting the way he has. Everything was easier when he thought the hunter was just waiting to ask a favor.

Then Dean had— his chest feels warm at the memory.

“Hey, Cas.”

His eyes snap open, he didn’t hear Dean come over, didn’t hear the engine roar up, the soft crunch of snow.

“Dean? Where did you—“ He steels himself and frowns. “Why are you out here? I wish to be alone.” He says it coldly, turning his gaze back to snow swept creation, the dying light casts everything golden.

“Nah, I think I’ll stay actually,.” Dean says, his stance familiar and stubborn green eyes fierce, swaying very slightly. All the signs scream that the he’s spoiling for a fight,

Cas can’t do this tonight, he already _feels_ overwhelmed _,_ and the 6 pack he’d downed within the last hour doesn’t help.He pushes himself to his feet, wincing, forgetting about his injuries and how long it takes humans to heal, tipping slightly— Dean’s next to him immediately, arm around his waist.

“Stop running from me dammit.” His voice is angry belying the gentleness of his touch, his breath smells of alcohol. “All you do is fucking leave.”

Cas wants to argue but he’s not angry enough, and they’ve both had too much to drink. Instead, they hobble and weave their way down into the bunker. Dean steers toward Cas’ bedroom. The sound of talk and laughter comes from the kitchen area, Dean veers from the noise in annoyance.

 _Great,_ Cas thinks, _That’s all we need, more hunters._

* * *

As soon as they’re through his door, Cas tries to pull away. He hopes desperately that Dean, for the first time in his life, will get the hint.

“Why are you doing this?” Dean asks, his voice heavy and spiteful, gripping Cas’ arm so tightly, he knows it will bruise. “I know, I know there’s something going on Cas.”

The Angel flinches, “I don’t want to talk about it.” He pushes with surprising strength. “ _Let go_ Dean.”

Dean leans in close, their noses nearly touching.

“Make _me_.” He says; the game they’ve played, sidestepped around and avoided looking at directly for 10 years fades into something tangible between them.

Something breaks inside the angel, perhaps it’s the look in Dean’s eyes, or the way his voice pleads in a way Cas has never heard— but this wave rises hot, wanting, insatiable.

He slams Dean backward into the door hard enough to knock the breath out of him, his hands clench around Dean’s collar, twisting until Dean tilts down to his height. His surprise is obvious, Dean still expects the same virtuous Angel who looked panicked inside a brothel. But Cas has spent twelve years wanting Dean Winchester. 

“Why?” he rasps, his voice strained, teeth clenched, “Why do you always _push me_?”

Dean’s brain isn’t connecting to his mouth, blood flow is not rushing up it seems.

“Well?” The Angel asks again, pressing into his space aggressively, his pupils large, expression fierce. “Leaving? Staying? Kindness? Anger? Hate? Desire? Decide what you want Dean.” His words are direct, rapid fire and merciless.

Chest to chest, he can feel Dean breath, human instinct blinds him, he grinds lightly against him, watching curiously, seeing Dean’s face go wide with want.

As much as that alone should make it clear, Cas doubts.

“Pain? Do you want me to hurt you?” He peers into Dean, harder than he has in years, brushing through self-loathing and rage, leaning into their bond with the little bits of angelic grace still pulsing through his veins, until he sees flashes of an old memory, Dean shivers.

“The alley?” He breathes sharp with surprise, his hands slide down between Dean’s legs, the noise Dean makes is his answer. Every thought and desire Cas has held close over the past decade rips out of him in a boldness that could be blamed on a heady mix of rage and alcohol.

“Please.” Dean whines. But he isn’t begging out of fear.

“Then tell me what you want,” He punctuates every word, never once letting up his hold on Dean.

“Make me.” Dean repeats, and it’s so Dean. So fierce and fiery, burning with golden light. Even in his desire for surrender he is strong. He grabs Cas’ hand and places it back on his throat.

Cas’ mounting fear of his own true happiness dissipates in a second, a raw hunger rises instead, suppressing the softer emotions.

 _Sex. Dean wants sex._

Maybe this is what selfishness feels like? He could not have Dean’s heart. But maybe this.

Cas turns this over and over in his mind, eyes locked with Dean’s, one hand on his throat, the other moves slowly, almost involuntarily up the denim of Dean’s pants to the waist. The air has gone so still, all they can hear is each other’s breathing and the pop as Cas undoes the button. With a feather-light touch, he finds the tab of the zipper. He stares intensely at the flecks of light reflected by Dean’s green irises, watching every little emotion play out on his face as they stand, almost locked in time, listening to each little pop of zipper teeth coming undone, one by one, as he moves the zipper down ever so slowly. Nervousness, overwhelmed with excitement, yearning, anticipation, lust, and that ever-present Dean Winchester self-satisfied smugness, that right now, Cas isn’t sure if he loves or hates.

Cas reaches back up to the waistband of the jeans, curls his fingers into the waistband of Dean’s boxers as well, firmly gripping the tops of both garments in a fisted wad of fabric. In the still air, the rumbled sound of clothing being swiftly and viciously pulled down and out of the way might as well be a thunderclap. Shock briefly registers in Dean’s eyes – maybe shock that this was actually happening. But it’s swiftly replaced by an eager, roguish, “aren’t-I-a-charmer” smile that starts small but quickly blooms.

 _Fuck._ Not a word Castiel was used to hearing in his inner-monologue, but he was preoccupied to dwell on it. Because, _fuck_ , he so loved that classic Dean Winchester smile. But all he can think about right now is how good it would feel to wipe that patented grin off of Dean Winchester’s face.

Maybe this is what Meg meant.

Maybe it was finally time to be selfish.

* * *

**December 20**

Sam stumbles into the kitchen, it’s gotta be close to 2:30; he woke up with that universal unrelenting need for water.

He’d drunk too much,Eileen is home and she loves margaritas nearly as much as she loves him. As he crosses the threshold into the kitchen he pauses, unable to fully process what he sees.

Cas stands in front of the open fridge, naked, save for a ratty pair of boxers that hang off his hips.

They’re inside out, tag sticking up with faded familiar initials written in large, block caps, _D.W.;_ his back is covered in ugly red scratches, there’s a telltale hickey visible on the back of his thigh.

Sam’s brain is still sleep fogged and moderately tipsy, but all of these things seem somehow related.

By this time, Cas, feeling a stare, pokes his head up out of the fridge,

“Hello Sam.” He says, gravely as usual, hair wild and messy, a bag of shredded cheese in hand.

Sam’s trying to wrap his head around all of this, cause, if it’s a dream, he wonders what the hell _that_ means.

“Oh, hey, uh, Cas.” He says sleepily, cutting off a yawn. “You good?”

“I was… hungry.” Cas suddenly self-conscious, scratches his belly, shrugs, “Being human is… difficult sometimes. I am experiencing cravings, but I have no idea for what, I keep leaning toward… cheese? That can’t be right.” He sighs sadly and places the bag back in the refrigerator.

Sam makes it to the sink, nodding faintly at his dilemma, filling a cup and trying to avoid direct eye contact.

“Cas, I made uh, fajitas, there’s leftovers on the… top… shelf.” The Angel is already shoulders deep in the fridge by the time he finishes his sentence.

“Heat it up first” Sam calls over his shoulder, “It’ll taste better.”

* * *

Cas sits on the edge of the bed, watching Dean sleep, the low light from the lamp playing across his freckled skin.

“If you keep starin’ like that, I’m gonna get embarrassed.” Dean murmurs sleepily, eyes still closed, his lips curled.

“I am sorry. If I made you uncomfortable.” Cas says standing to leave, he has no idea where he’ll go, they’re in his room.

Dean’s off the bed, and on him in a second,

“Not what I said.” He rumbles, pulling Cas back toward the bed, already leaning forward to tease the skin under the angel’s ear, he sniffs, pauses, nose wrinkling. “Cas, why do you smell like _Taco Bell_?”

“Fajitas.” Cas says matter-of-factly, pushing past the fact that he’s letting Dean use him, It just, it doesn’t feel quite as bad as he expected.

 _Just for a few days,_ he promises himself, _then I’ll go_.

“I was hungry, after…” He flushes.

Dean’s proud that Cas remembered to put something on, then disappointed because the Angel wearing clothes again.

“Took twelve damn years to get you naked.” He grumbles, Dean’s hands are already slipping under the edge of the boxers Cas is wearing, he’s trying to focus past how hot it is that Cas is wearing _his_.

“You uh… still hungry?” Dean’s lips pause, he looks at Cas through thick eyelashes. This, this is something he’s good at, feelings, nah. Sex? _Hell yes._

Cas swallows, the familiar tang of lust building at the sight, he pulls Dean into a heated kiss, hand wrapped around his neck, the lamp in the corner begins to buzz.

The hunter finds himself on his belly, Cas’ arms bracketing his head. Dean twists, finding Cas’ lips; tries to soften it, to draw it out, to flirt and tease— he lets out a hiss when Cas’ fingers are already seeking his entrance, there’s no hesitation, like he owns everything about the action and Dean himself and _damn_ that’s fucking hot.

“Already?” Dean shivers. Cas is already pressing inside, checking to see if he’s still loose enough from before. “And I thought _I_ was the repressed one. Foreplay, you know, is—”

“Spread your legs.”

Dean hears someone whine, and realizes it’s _him_ , he’s pushed down to his elbows, held in place by Castiel.

“Oh _god_.” He gasps, and everything compresses into the feeling of Cas inside him, moving and filling, he gasps.

“No, just me.” He can hear Cas smirking, the bastard, his hand settles over the top of Dean’s, kissing the back of his shoulder absently as he thrusts in deeper and deeper.

 _Complete_.

The bulb bursts. Neither notice.

* * *

“Next time,” Dean says sleepily, curling in close, nose drifting to rub right below his collarbone as he settles in comfortably. “We are sleeping in _my_ room. Your mattress sucks balls dude,”

Cas tries not to think about, _next time_ , or about what kinds of things those words stir up inside him.

 _This is just sex to him._

“Is there something wrong with my room?” He asks instead, Dean’s breath is warm on his chest, it’s already growing slower. “Dude.” He adds awkwardly, unsure if this is another one of Dean’s rituals.

Dean chuckles, and throws his leg up over Cas’ legs; shifting slightly to get more comfortable, burrowing deeper into Cas’ embrace.

“Might have to rethink some nicknames.” He rumbles. “Not sure if you can call me that now that you’ve had your dick in my ass.”

The angel hums in agreement, slowly slips his free hand over Dean’s arm and plays with the back of Dean’s hair. Waiting for the moment his actions are too much, for Dean to lash out and kick them out of this surreal bubble.

“ _And_ two words, _memory foam_. You’re actually sleepin’ now, so it’ll be great for you.” Dean can’t remember the last time he felt so content, who knew little spoon was this great. **“** Plus, we are gonna need light at this point, and I don’t want to explain to Sam how ya busted every bulb in the damn room.”

* * *

By the next morning, Sam is convinced that he dreamed the whole thing. They’re all sitting in the kitchen; most of the hunters still sleeping off their respective hangovers or hunts.

His brother is humming, making coffee and pancakes, apron’s tied off around his waist, hotdog pajama bottoms on display. Cas is sitting at the bar, signing animatedly to Eileen, who is laughing infectiously.

Cas’ eyes dart to Dean who’s already staring from the stove.

Last night, _definitely a dream_.

Dean walk-dances over, Jimmy Page’s guitar whining faintly from the Bluetooth speaker Jack bought him for his birthday, offers him a cup of coffee with a grunt.

 _“Organic beans.”_ He says proudly, “Got up early and went downtown to this little coffee shop I saw,looks like it’s going out of business. It was called _The Daily Grind,_ ” He chuckles, “Had to explain it to Cas.”

“I understood the pun.” Cas interrupts, dryly, clearly for Sam’s benefit, signing something sly to Eileen. “I apparently did not find it _hilarious_ enough.”

Sam cocks an eyebrow, doing his best to ignore all of these suspicious little details. “Oh uh… _thanks_ , Dean.”

Nothing seems too weird about the way they interact: other than the way Cas is speaking directly to Dean as opposed to in his general direction. And the fact that Dean’s being attentive and smiley, like a teenager with a crush.

Sam catches Eileen’s eye quirking an eyebrow, she shrugs.

 _"Maybe they talked"_ She signs when Cas is distracted by something Dean asks. " _At least breakfast won’t be awkward."_

When Dean finally finishes flipping pancakes and comes to take a seat, Sam notices curiously that he sits more gingerly than usual. Cas eyes him with concern, they share a charged look; Dean winks, Cas looks down at his plate. Uncomfortable but not displeased.

Another Hunter appears, interrupting his trepidation. Sam notes Cas shifts his chair closer to Dean to make room at the table, Dean runs his hand down Cas’ elbow, as he fills the new coffee mug; his brother’s already up and headed back toward the stove, offering food over his shoulder, to the new arrivals, limping slightly.

_Oh._

“Sam,” His attention shifts to Cas, the look of understanding coloring his face, over Cas’ shoulder, Dean flips a pancake with effortless finesse, “Thank you for suggesting _warming_ the fajitas this morning. You were correct, it tasted much better.”

Dean curses his body still as a statue, the pancake hits the countertop.

* * *

Cas doesn’t even make it into the hallway before Dean follows with singular purpose; walking double time and in a single smooth move has him pulled by the shirt into the dark doorway of the infirmary,

“Took you long enough.” He’s got both his hands flat on Cas’ chest, leaning down to bite his lip; Cas doesn’t let him have control for long. “I’m never making you breakfast again if you’re gonna eat slower than damn molasses.”

He can feel the dark sense of desire rising.

“I was _speaking_ to Eileen.” Cas hisses, flipping their positions with ease; pinning Dean’s wrist to the wall, kissing him breathless. “You are being _rude_.” Dean’s lips reach toward Cas, his still-pinned arms keeping him from his target.

“I’m always rude.” Dean’s eyes are heavy with flirtatious energy, “I’m starting to feel like you kinda like it.” The hunter tilts his hips; pajama bottoms doing nothing to hid his obvious desire.

Cas’ nostrils flare, “I thought you were sore.” He murmurs, a thread of concern in his voice, opposing the fact that his hand is already working it’s way into Dean’s pajamas, relieved that they are a loose pair.

“And you aren’t wearing underwear.” Cas’ voice sinks lower, he leans close and presses his lips nearly to Dean’s ear, the warmth of his breath tickles, he shudders in anticipation. “Is this your way of begging?”

Dean laughs, speeding past turned on at this point, Cas is _way_ too good at all of this. He wonders if there’s a subtle way to ask how much porn the Angel has watched over the years.

“There’s a difference,” He whispers against Cas’ cheek. “This, this is good sore, sweetheart. Oh _Fuck—_ ” He keens, trying to keep his voice down, noticing the slight smirk playing along Cas’ lips. “Are you teasin’ me? Cause if you keep doing…. _that_ I’m gonna go off in my pants like a fuckin’ teenager.”

“Seems embarrassing for you.”Cas replies remorselessly, repeating the motion, Dean is panting, he’s only vaguely flustered about the noise Cas wrings from him.

“—Hey _Dean?”_

_Fuck._

Dean seizes Cas’ wrist with lightning speed, stilling the motion, though Cas’ thumb manages another toe-curling movement before he pulls his hand out of Dean’s pajamas, sliding his fingers into his mouth, tasting thoughtfully. Dean’s full lips part as he watches the motion, he makes a strangled noise.

“Learn that from the pizza man?” Dean whispers half-cheeky, half-frustrated, Cas pulls them free, his thumb moving to rest on Dean’s bottom lip, worrying it with his thumbnail.

Cas only winks, blinking once, before wiping his hand on Dean’s shirt and walking out the door, passing Sam on his way, who looks between the two of them and the darkened room, his eyes narrowing with disbelief.

“Are you guys… good?” Sam asks, taking in the nearly wrecked expression on Dean’s face.

“ _So_ Good.” Dean stutters out, standing awkwardly, staring dumbfounded and pleased the way Cas went. He clears his throat. “What’s— what’s up Sammy?”

“I guess you and Cas made up?”

Dean’s eyes snap to his brother’s face. “Cas what?”

 _Oh._ Sam’s face curls. “ _Damn it_ Dean.”

“What?”

“Are you _fucking_ an Angel of the Lord?” Sam is not a prude, but this… a lot.

“I mean.” Dean mumbles under his breath. “I'm not really the one who... if we are just being honest…”

“ _Dean.”_

“What?” Dean sulks. “ _You’re_ the one that asked.”

Sam's eyes go wide, like he's seriously debating all of the life choices he's made to get this point.

“Have you told him?” Sam whispers.

Dean's good mood evaporates instantly.

“Shit _Sam_. Keep your damn voice down.”

Sam sighs, “So you haven’t. Great. _Classic Winchester Behavior. Dean_ haven’t you learned _anything—“_

Dean slams the door and whirls.

“First: fuck you.” He says, finger raised. “And B: Last time I checked you got Eileen back with all her damn memories _and_ you guys had already figured your shit out, so it was pretty much holding hands and sailing off into the friggin' sunset, so _fuck you_ and your fucking judgy hair and stupid goddamn kale smoothies _.”_

Sam’s forehead wrinkles at the last comment, “Got any other words in there asshole? Or are you just gonna keep making excuses?”

They’re both bristling at this point, nose to nose.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ tell him.” Dean says, spits, fumes, whatever.

“When?” Sam’s trying to be patient, but his brother is sometimes the most controlling dipshit and he’s not going to watch him fuck up things with Cas. He _likes_ Cas. Cas _loves_ Dean for whatever reason and he’s like 98% sure Dean’s got the big L on his brain right now.

“Soon.”

“And in the meantime you’re just gonna what? Explore your sexuality cause Cas is willing? Can’t you see that’s fucked up?”

“He loves me.” Dean says, but he does see it, and he’s panicking, but he knows what it felt like last night, how waking up to him… fuck static and chick feelings and all that shit but it was one of the best mornings of his stupid tragedy of an existence.

“Yeah Dean. He does.” Sam finally says, sitting on one of the infirmary beds with a tired sigh. “And I get it, you finally get to see what it would be like to be with someone who gets you, who loves you and it’s terrifying and fantastic and beautiful. But you’ve got to be honest with him. Even if it hurts. You’ve got to trust him enough to know that it won’t change anything. Dean.” He shifts, and leans on his knees. “You’re worth staying for.”

“I’m not.” Dean gasps out, more emotional that he’d realized. “I’d tell him to fucking leave my sorry broken ass, myself if I wasn’t so damn selfish.”

Sam snorts unexpectedly, apparently Doctor Phil was _not_ in the house today.

“You’re both stubborn bastards, good look with that. Do you even _know_ how many times Cas has stuck by you, consequences be damned? I swear to god Dean, you're not this stupid.” He stands. “Tell him the truth. Cas deserves it. And _Jesus_ Christ dude _,_ man the hell up and maybe admit to yourself that you love him back.”

He slams the door shut behind him leaving Dean with his own thoughts.

* * *

**December 22**

“Christmas?”

Baby rumbles softly, Cas is looking confused in the passenger seat, it’s a fuckin’ Norman Rockwell painting. Cas loves that crap.

“Yeah, you know, the holiday, the reason there’s lights and trees, Santa, baby Jesus. Ringing any bells? You’re an Angel… isn’t this like required learning in angel kindergarten?”

“There’s no such thing as— I know what _Christmas_ is Dean. I just don’t understand why—“

“Cause it’s the first one with the Bunker open for business, and most hunters, well they don’t have much of a family outside of us. So Sam and Eileen want it to be special, Garth and Bess and kids are coming, Jody, the girls, Plus Jack—“

“It’s his favorite.” Cas admits, seeming to take his explanation at face value.

Dean relaxes, yeah of course it’s more for Sam and Eileen, not the mental countdown timer to their… whatever it was.

He tries to think about it candidly, tries to ignore the dread that settles low in his gut at the thought of losing whatever it is they’ve had over the past few days.

Maybe, just maybe, he can give the Angel a reason to stay even _when_ he remembers.

_When he remembers spilling his guts and crying his eyes out and Dean just standing there silent while the wall oozed black._

Cas looks out at the road in front of them, still confused, his hands play with the sleeves of his coat.

“So why are we going into town, _secretly_?” He whispers the last word.

“Presents.” Dean states, grinning happily. “T-minus two days sunshine.”

* * *

“Castiel!”

Erin’s smile is bright and genuine, she comes around to the inside of the bar, nodding to another bartender who moves off. “How are you? How is Mister Dean?”

“My— my friends call me Cas,” The Angel replies less stiffly, remembering to smile like Dean taught him. “You may also call me that, if you are comfortable.” He feels less anxious this time, despite the fact that the bar is packed with patrons. “Dean is well, I believe”

“You believe? You’re not sure?” She chuckles, caught off guard but endeared by his awkwardness. “Want a beer?”

He tilts his head, “Yes, Erin, dealer’s choice.” He says proudly, remembering slang. “I do not wish to keep you if you’re busy.”

“Nah.” She says, “Bar’s busier anyway. Plus, we’re old friends right?” She winks, “So where is your better half tonight?”

“Christmas shopping.” He replies dismally. “We have been in town for hours. He told to me to come here and eat, that I was _‘hangry’_ and _‘harshing his mellow_ ’” Cas shrugs.

“Oh shi— I’ve still gotta do mine.” She groans, then leans forward as a thought strikes her. “Didyour date end up okay?”

“I do not know if it was a—“

“— _Mister_ Cas” She interrupts kindly, already adding a burger and fries into their digital register. “It was definitely a date. He paid right?”

“Yes but—“

“There ya go. So what are you gonna get him for Christmas?”

“What?”

She stares at him seriously. “For Christmas.”

“Why—“

“He’s your boyfriend.”

“We are not—“

“Sure sure, but does he know that?”

Cas frowns. “It is obligatory to have a gift?”

“Yeah if you like him.” She laughs. “Why do you think he kicked you out of shopping? He’s trying to get you a surprise.”

“Oh.” He takes a drink. “Erin, how do you know if that is what is happening? I do not believe that this is something I should google. I do not have my own laptop, and the online quizzes I have taken in the past are very… confusing.”

She smiles as he flounders.

“We are not— I do not believe he is my—“

“I know. He’s not your boyfriend.” She asks, “Is it cause you’re afraid to get hurt again?”

“Something like that.”

“Trying to keep it casual. I respect it. But you seem to really like him.”

“I do. It is… complicated.”

“Love always is.” She says, with an understanding smile. “Maybe try talking to him? Speak of the devil—“

Cas whips around, already in a defensive stance, Dean is standing there, bags on his arms.

“Oh whoa hey, just me Cas— Just me.”

He waves at Erin, laying a hand on Cas’ shoulder. “You feeling okay?” He asks seriously.

Cas nods,

“How was the Christmas Shopping Mister Dean—“

“Dean, please, Mr. Dean is probably… some old redneck.” He, sneezes and looks surprised, he still hasn’t stopped staring at Cas. “Honestly, we waited way too late. I would rather fight monsters than shop this close to Christmas ever again.”

“Monsters. Right. Funny.” Erin says, already handing Dean a bottle. “You must be into video games.”

Dean smiles, and takes a seat next to Cas, “Me? No not really, my… _god_ son though, is obsessed with Minecraft.”

Cas rolls his eyes at Dean’s joke.

“No beers for me tonight, sorry Er— gotta get home to decorate the… house.”

“Anytime guys.” She winks at Cas and mouths, _good luck_.

* * *

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Cas asks, Christmas music plays low on the radio,

“Mmhmm.” Dean has thrown an arm over the back of the bench seat. His fingers play with the hair at the nape of Cas’ neck.

It _is_ as soft as he imagined.

Cas sinks into the gentleness of the moment, the murmur of radio voices in between songs, Baby’s engine rumbling and Dean Winchester’s calloused fingers rubbing designs on the skin of his neck.

How will he manage to tear himself away? Perhaps it would be worth going to the Empty, just for Dean to know how he feels.

“What did you find?” He says.

“You’ll see on Christmas Morning, sweetheart.” Dean pauses. “And if you use your Angel mojo to try and figure out your gift, I will kick your ass.”

They listen to the radio, Dean sings along to the carols he knows, he taps the steering wheel in time.

“Dean?”

“Mhhmm”

“Are you happy?” Cas is staring out at the night, Dean’s fingers go still on his neck.

“About?”

“This.”

Dean’s thumb brushes underneath Cas’ ear, tightening slightly.

“Yeah.” He replies softly, honestly, the snow is coming down around them.

“Are you?” The question is weighted in its simplicity; it hangs like warm breath in the air between them.

He keeps his voice level and subdued; “Our intimacy has been… enjoyable.” He sees Dean nod jerkily out of the corner of his eye.

“Right.” He says each word in annoying clarity, “Enjoyable Intimacy.” his jaw sets, the muscle in his cheek ticks; the atmosphere cools.

Cas shifts away from his hand, Dean turns up the music and makes no attempt to touch him.

* * *

Dean stands outside Cas’ door, his heart pounding. Hand raised to knock. It’s late, everyone else has pretty much gone to bed.

He’d been pissed when they got out of the car, he didn’t feel good in general, but then watching Cas go all distant and untouchable.

He’d stared at marble statues the few times his dad dragged him into a church, when Cas looked like that… it made his stomach hurt.

The past couple days hadn’t set right, every time he gets a chance to talk to Cas he turns into chickenshit and dodges.

After their fight in the car, he’d pouted like a middle schooler. Cas had made no attempt to continue the conversation, instead staring hard out the window.

Dean gotten the gifts out of the back of his car alone, ignoring Cas standing awkwardly; slammed the trunk shut and stomped inside without a backward glance.

Sam and Eileen were holed up somewhere supposed to be making cookies and more likely making out.

“Dean I—“

He turns too suddenly to act like he hadn’t been waiting for this moment, Cas looks sorry.

He knows he should apologize, grab him by the hands and tell him he’s sorry and all the rest of the things he’s been avoiding thinking about since Cas fucking died in front of him. He drops the bags to the floor and steps close grabbing Cas’ ice cold hands, unafraid for the first time as to who sees him.

Jack shouts from the kitchen when the door bangs shut; Cas flinches away, and whatever Dean might have said died on his lips.

* * *

Cas spent the remainder of the evening in the kitchen with Jack shaping cookies, Dean wandered in to observe, clean up after them, make sure they didn’t set anything on fire or accidentally poison somebody. Mostly trying not to be amused by the fact that flour appeared to be getting everywhere except the cookies.

An angel appeared with a flutter, mid-bake with a serious look on his face and a message for their god-son. Jack left soon after, waving goodbye to Cas and smiling reassuringly to Dean before disappearing.

Dean waited a solid, unsuspicious hour after Cas lit out for his room, before heading out after him.

He takes a deep breath.

They’ve been sleeping in the same room for two days, waking up together, falling asleep wrapped up in each other.

So _what,_ they had a fight. This isn’t a big deal. They fight all the time, hell, it’s been weirder that they _haven’t_ screamed at each other in the past couple days.

Cas opens his door, unexpectedly, taking in Dean’s hand raised to knock, eyes going from confused to cool, forehead wrinkling at Dean standing there.

“Hello Dean.”

“Oh… hey Cas.” He starts awkwardly, wide smile plastered across his face. “How are ya?”

“I am well. We spoke less than two hours ago.” Head tilt. “Why are you here?”

“Because… It’s your room.” All of his normal charm evaporates like smoke.

“For intercourse.” Castiel retorts, as though it’s obvious now, his voice though, it sounds, disappointed.

“I thought you said you wished for us to sleep in your room moving forward? Memory foam?” He nudges the doop open a little wider, Dean sees the neat duffel in his hand. ”I was gathering my things, to make it less obvious to Sam and the rest that we are…”

“Boning.” Dean finishes, confidence returned, his mouth curved, “Knockin’ boots—“ He forms a circle with the finger and thumb of one hand and then uses the other to do an in-and-out motion universally recognized by middle schoolers everywhere. “Spelunking the bat cave—“

Cas’ eyebrows arch at the motion, flicking tiredly to the hunter. “Yes Dean, Congress.”

“Sam already knows, pretty sure Eileen would give us a high five.” Dean sneezes again, taking the duffel from the angel, already making his way down the hallway, Cas follows quietly. “I gotta teach you some sexier words.”

* * *

“Cas we don’t—“ He grabs Cas’ hands, stilling the motion. “We don’t have to— literally as soon as we are alone.”

“You were upset earlier, I thought this would make you feel—“

Cas looks embarrassed, uncertain. Dean holds onto the hand and stares at him.

“Hey. I’m not saying I don’t want to— I’m just sayin, we had like 4 rounds of—“ He whistles and grins. “Pretty fantastic sex. But I’m also like… forty—” He looks up, trying to think… “Forty-twoish? I’m cool with just laying on the bed and watching Netflix tonight if you want to…”

He doesn’t say cuddle. Dean Winchester does not cuddle.

“You do not wish to have an orgasm?” The Angel asks seriously, after a few expressions cross his face.

“Oh buddy, that is a completely different question.” Dean laughs and sniffles slightly, he swallows and feels thick. “But, maybe tonight I just kinda want to chill.”

“I can go back to my room.”

Dean reaches out grabbing Cas’ sleeve, stilling his movement. “Did I say I wanted you to leave?”

“You want to… spend time with me?” The question is asked softly, he’s standing like he isn’t sure what to do with his hands, the one suspended limply between them. Dean breathes and counts backward from ten, and tries to ignore the wretched feeling of guilt over what he’s done to the Angel over the years.

Well over the last year in particular. Reliving in startling clarity how they carved each other up, and it never once took knives. Most of Cas’ last memories of him are cold and hateful, fights and misunderstandings and cruel cutting words. Of him standing there dumb while he dies over and over and over.

_He’s not going to stay. He’s not going to stay. He’s not going to—_

“Cas.” He sighs, he feels too warm and annoyed with himself. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had— no, shut up, Sam’s my brother, and you— you’re my best friend. Of course I like spending time with you. I mean… I also like seeing you naked— it’s a very confusing turn of events to be honest. I feel like I’m handling it _very_ well.“ He flops to the bed and lays on his back, spread-eagle, letting out a pathetic moan. He feels like shit.

Cas leans over him, palm already on his forehead, staring into his eyes, cool hands lingering on his cheeks before spreading the eyelids gently, checking his pulse.

“You are fevered.” He states helplessly, not for the first time wishing he was not quite so human. “I should go get Sam.”

Dean seizes his wrist, shakes his head stubbornly. “It’s just cause I’ve been working outside on the house, probably some sort of damn cold. Listen, go out there and steal Sam’s other laptop, it’s in the library. Stop fussing— I’m fine.”

Cas looks skeptical, “What about… soup? Everyone on Netflix says fluids and… rest and— there is always soup.”

“Mmhmm, yeah that’s standard protocol.” Dean has his eyes closed, he sniffs loudly and sneezes. “No soup. Just get the laptop.” He coughs into his shoulder and sounds tired and stuffy,

Cas is only gone a moment, he holds the laptop in his hands, face uncertain.

“Dean— if you are ill—“

“ _Cas_ , I swear to god, if you don’t get in the damn bed and cuddle with me, I’m gonna scream.” He sounds petulant, he doesn’t care. He’s sick.

The Angel frowns, nods once, removes his coat and borrowed boots, folding them neatly, stripping down to a t-shirt and a pair of boxers.

Dean’s already flipped onto his stomach, he’s shimmied out of his jeans in the in-between, and lays there watching with one eye as Cas putters around the room, unpacking his duffel in his methodical unhurried way. Of course he didn’t do _exactly_ what Dean had asked, but he’s getting there.

They’d shared rooms, even motel beds before, but this, watching Cas just be. It feels like peace.

Cas piles blankets on him, ignores his protests, insisting the google told him it was a good idea, he chooses Lord of the Rings, Dean grumbles, mostly about the blankets.

Cas ignores him, spending the first bit of the movie shifting Dean’s things back into the semblance of organization. His room got bad during the weeks following losing the angel and their final altercation with Chuck. Now it looks almost exactly like it did before.

The Angel leaves the room very briefly to hunt some nighttime flu medication from the infirmary, doing his very best to avoid being seen.

Dean barely moves when Cas _finally_ crawls into bed with him, he lets the hunter press his clammy self against him without even a word of complaint. Dean leans his head wearily against Cas’ shoulder, sniffing pathetically.

“Thanks Cas.”

Cas places an arm around his shoulder and pulls the blankets more firmly around him, resting his palm against Dean’s forehead. Dean can’t remember a time when he had been sick and had someone tuck him into bed.

“For?” Cas rumbles, eyes on the screen.

“Coming back. Every time.” He’s trailing off a little, the nighttime meds kicking in.

He adds, “Kept your coat.”

They’re significant, those three words, he says them like he hopes Cas understands what they really mean.

“Wouldn’t leave you in Purgatory.” He adds again.

“I know.” Cas’ voice is nearly a whisper. He hopes for both their sakes, that Dean sleeps soon, this is too much for him.

“Always missed you. Every time.” Dean is mumbly, fading.

Cas doesn’t respond, blinks away the moisture that rises to his eyes, focuses on anything other than Dean who won’t shut up and just sleep for once.

“Hey Cas?” Dean says, fighting out of near unconsciousness.

He sighs, “Yes Dean?”

“What are your wings like?”

Jack sounded like this when he used to read him stories before sleep, never wanted to let go of the moment, even as his questions became less and less coherent.

Cas smiles faintly at the memory, no longer watching the movie.

“Larger than most.”

“And we both know you’re not compensating for anything.” Still cheeky, still Dean Winchester.

Cas chuckles, thinking through his words, fingers carding through the wavy hair at Dean’s temple. “They are… dark, Six, because I am Seraphim; when fully manifested they are fearsome and filled with eyes.”

“I think I— I think I saw ‘em once,” Dean shifts so his arm is wrapped around Cas’ middle, head cushioned underneath his collarbones, rising and falling with every breath. “When you first appeared.”

“That was— that was only a shadow, my true form would destroy your mind and leave you a gibbering fool.”

“Hot.” He murmurs.

“You should try to sleep Dean.”

“Yeah, yeah I know.” His voice is a sleepy mutter. “Cas?”

“Yes Dean?”

“You’re happy too right?”

The weight in his chest tightens and constricts, he pulls Dean closer, feeling him drift out into deep sleep; a single tear slips down his nose, as warm and human as the man in his arms.

“Yes Dean,” He whispers, burying his nose in the hunter’s hair. “I am.”

* * *

**December 24**

“You know.” Dean saunters up, shit-eating grin growing wider and wider. “By law, if we are both under the mistletoe at the same time, we have to kiss.”

Castiel looks up to the green plant taped clumsily to the door’s arch, squinting suspiciously first at the plant, then at Dean whose eyes sparkle. “Who enforces such a law?” He asks, Dean takes a big drink of his reindeer mug.

“Santa’s Elves.” His voice, suddenly mock-serious. Cas’ concern is immediate.

“The Fae?”

“Mhmm.” Dean nods, still trying to keep a straight face. “We have to.”

“Or else?”

“You ruin Christmas. Everyone is sad, Jack will cry.” He shakes his head in dubious earnestness. “At this point, we’ve delayed so much— we are probably gonna have to make out. For the greater good.”

Cas’ frown slackens, he rolls his eyes. “You’re mocking me.”

“I would _never_ joke about making out with you.” He’s smiling again, heart in his eyes. “But I’m starting to think you don’t wanna kiss me and that sorta hurts my—“

Cas grabs hold of the outrageous Christmas sweater the hunter insisted on wearing and pulls Dean down for a kiss. Dean’s arms wrap around Cas’ shoulders and when he finally pulls back he’s smiling soft and earnest, and leans his forehead against the Angel’s.

Cas doesn’t let him do this soft of thing often, growing awkward and cold when the hunter tries anything soft. Dean isn’t sure what that means in the long run, but the only plan he’s really got is making this the best damn week of Cas’ life.

Then maybe, _maybe_ he’ll want to stay.

“Will that appease the Fae?” Cas asks, and Dean knows him so damn well he can hear the amusement in his voice.

Dean snorts, pulling back. “I dunno Angel, we might have to do it a few more times, just to make sure. Maybe naked next time, you know how these fairy rituals get—”

“ _Dean_.”

 _“_ I’m just sayin.” He pulls back staring off into the middle distance. “It’s for the kids.” He kisses Cas’ temple playfully.

“Someone will see.” Cas is trying to be serious, but Dean can see the half grin playing in on his lips.

“And?” He kisses him breathless and sighs into his lips.

“Dean this is—“

“—Cas I need to tell you—“

“Hey Guys“ Eileen pulls up short and winks. “Be glad it was me and not Sam. He’s still pissed about catching you two on the library table.” Cas has the decency to blush, Dean on the other hand.

_“—Oh my fucking— not cool Dean—“ Sam has his hands over his eyes like he’s in third grade and he caught Dean making out with some Senior in a broom closet._

_Cas is cherry red, tucking himself back into his pants, Dean’s less pressed, pushing up off the table with a groan._

_“Hey, see, It’s alright Sammy. See this, It’s a very natural thing between two consenting adults—”_

_“No Dean. Seeing my brother getting—“_

_“Fucked by heaven?” Dean winks at Cas. “Not necessarily a new thing for us.”_

_“Goddamnit Dean.”_

_“Please don’t—“ Cas finds his voice._

_“You’re right, sorry Jack.” The younger hunter mutters to the ceiling._

_“You can turn around, we’re decent.” Says Dean, mostly true, Cas is. Dean is leaned up against the table in nothing but a t-shirt and a smile._

_This in itself, isn’t so shocking, no, it was the absolutely self-satisfied expression on his face._

_“Please.” Sam starts again, his eyes closed again after the briefest glances, “_ Please, _tell me that you didn’t get— what I think you did— on that divining map.”_

_Both Cas and Dean lean across the table, they make eye contact._

Nice shot _. Dean mouthes at the Angel, eyebrows raised, then:_ Don’t worry about it _._

_“Sammy, I’m pretty sure that Angel juice ramps up the uh, inherent potency of that spell. So, you’re welcome, actually— We uh— Divined it up for ya.”_

_Cas knows how ridiculous Dean sounds, sees the absolute irritation in Sam’s usually patient face. The younger looks to the Angel for some sort of decency, for his normally good sense to prevail in this incredibly ridiculous moment._

“ _Oh.” His voice croaks nervously. “Yes.” He agrees too-loudly, out of the corner of his eye he can see Dean smirking between him and Sam. But Sam already knows he’s lost this fight. Cas siding with Dean Winchester is near default settings after all this time._

_“Um, yes, Angelic discharges can be very… potent.” Dean gives him the eye equivalent of a high five, tongue working flirtatiously between his lips._

_Sam looks between them, raises his eyes to heaven. “You know what— fine. But Dean, we talked about this after the last time… and you, you promised to keep it in your rooms.” He sounds exhausted, and mildly scarred._

_But if he’s honest, at the end of the day, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen his brother this happy._

_“Dean don’t forget… I can kill you with my brain.” Sam winks, he walks out, wondering if there’s a spell for specific amnesia._

_“He’s getting cocky with all of this witch shit he’s learning.” Dean shrugs at Cas who is pleased to say_

_“I believe he was making a reference to the television show, Firefly, since we have been watching it with Jack—”_

_The hunter’s return smile is a delightful mix of sweetness and spice. “Now you’re just trying to seduce me.”_

_“Have I not been successful thus far?”_

_Dean’s about to make an equally cocky remark, doing his best to always have the last word, even though minutes ago Cas had him face down on a table._

_Cas brushes past him, grabs his ass and growls into his ear. “You’re dripping on the floor. Should clean it up before Sam sees.”_

Eileen is still standing, watching the two of them grin at each other.

“If you’re done eye-fucking each other,” She signs. “The kids want to open presents, they won’t start until we’re all in there.”

* * *

Cas frowns at the pile of gifts under the tree, the various wrappers and ripped paper leaving a pleasant sort of carnage. Jack is nearby, mouth full, laughing; talking animatedly to Dean who is already making faces about the healthy cinnamon roll alternative that Sam keeps getting up to check.

“If it doesn’t have gluten in it, then you’re doing it wrong.” He insists.

Cas counts again and frowns. They’re missing a gift.

He stands and waves a hand at Dean, dismissing his worried glance, heading to their— Dean’s— room.

Yesterday He and Dean had gone through the presents Dean had ordered one by one and Cas had discovered that Dean is good at many things; wrapping gifts is not one of them.

He digs through the various drawers, pulling out the carefully hidden hunter caches.

Nothing.

The only place left is Dean’s heavy wardrobe, an original to the bunker, He sighs and pulls the thick wooden doors open. Digging aimlessly, until he sees a glint of tacky red paper tucked behind familiar dark green fabric.

Cas grabs the gift triumphantly, pleased with how steady his hands are these days, the jacket coming out next for good measure. Dean’s been complaining about him stealing the leather one so often. He’s about to toss the jacket on the bed and hurry back— he can already hear Dean shouting his name.

His eyes are drawn to something on the shoulder. He knows dried blood, he’s cleaned it out of his coat many a time. Cas pauses, flipping on the lamp absently and peering closely.

A dried red handprint. The faintest flicker, the shiver of almost memory.

_“Why does this sound like goodbye?”_

_“Because it is.”_

* * *

Dean’s still wheezing with laughter when he rounds the corner to his room, he can’t wait to show Cas the matching Christmas sweater Jody bought for him. Plus the small box in his back pocket feels like it’s gonna burn a hole if he doesn’t give it to the angel soon.

It’s been hard enough to wait for the right moment, fantastically he discovered that Cas gets embarrassed by his big displays of affection and Dean is strung together with self-loathing and big moments, so he figures maybe he can compromise and grab him tonight when all the Christmas festivities are winding down.

The box is the final piece in his plan to keep Cas around.

“Cas I’m not gonna be able to keep Jack _and_ the Garth gremlins out of the cookies unless you—“ The laugh dies in his throat.

Cas is standing unnaturally still in the center of their—his— room. It’s been nearly a week since the angel had a hard day, he’s seemed so happy. But he probably got overwhelmed with all the people and noise, Dean is across the room in two strides, he reaches out—

“ _Don’t touch me._ ” Cas’ voice is fierce and so loud, sounds like a thousand voices, it hurts Dean’s ears. The lights buzz and brighten, a familiar whine keeps increasing, and Dean finally notices what Cas is holding.

“You knew.” Cas says, and his voice is just Cas again, so withering, so broken, he lifts his eyes to Dean’s and they’re filled with angry tears.

This is the way it ends, how it was always meant to end.

“Listen, Cas— “ Dean takes a breath, he feels like he can’t breath, he can fix this, “I was going to tell you—“

“So I was what? A joke?” The Angel is so angry- and his newly released grace is fueling the rage and embarrassment he feels. “I mean- it’s been a while since you had Angel isn’t it? Probably doing me a favor right? _Poor Cas_ , pining for 12 years, might as well give him a nice send off. Especially after I confess my…“ He swallows around self-disgust and dark emotions he can barely name. “— _Feelings_ to you, and then get dumped on your doorstep.” His fists clench around the jacket so tightly that his knuckles turn white.

Dean knows if he can just get a hold of this, “Cas _you know_ that’s not—“

“—Do I _Dean_?” He steps closer, anger radiating off. “You kept it from me. What else am I supposed to think?”

“I was trying to—”

“What? Fake it til you make it? You knew I’d never leave you willingly. I mean— I died for you didn’t it?” He laughs frantically and it’s an ugly sound, steps away, dropping the jacket, Dean can see how his hands are shaking.

“After Naomi reached into my head and _ripped_ out the moments that mattered, the ones that…” He clenches his fists, “You know what that did, and you did the same thing.”

Dean shrinks in, feels everything slipping through his fingers, but Cas isn’t done.

“And on top of all of it, you _still_ let me think— you let me worry about being _truly_ happy the whole time. Do you even understand how hard it was not to—“ He swallows and shakes his head furiously. “No. You didn’t did you Dean, cause it was just _sex_ for you _.”_

“Please Cas—”

“—What? You need me?” Cas’ tone is icy and snide. “You always seem to need me when I’m finally seeing the whole picture. But the reality is, I wasn’t even worth the truth.”

“Cas.” He can’t help it, he’ll beg, he just needs him to understand, to let him explain, explain… the static is back. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to— Cas I—“

“Goodbye Dean.”

A rush of wind, the rustle of feathers and he’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, so much pain tucked inside such a little guy,
> 
> Not gonna lie, I think one of my favorite bits was writing a brief remembrance into Endverse!Cas as he is a tragically underused character and a delight of epic proportions. If you're a fan of him  
> go read Down to Agincourt by Seperis go, go, go. it will change you as a person.
> 
> Again you are blessed if you reviewed prior, I keep all of them in my heart. But honestly, thanks for reading.


	3. Amen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We made it darlings, 
> 
> I appreciate you reading and (hopefully) enjoying it as much as I (mostly) enjoyed writing it.
> 
> Suggested Listening would be 
> 
> The Weight - Amber Run  
> Almost (Sweet Music) - Hozier  
> Going to Georgia - The Mountain Goats

**October 09**

All in all they do a pretty good job of not talking about Cas in front of Dean. Pissed him off that 8 months on and everyone still tiptoes around the whole situation. He knows they must know it’s his fault.

No one talks about Christmas Eve, the way Dean stood in his room in shock until Sam came looking for him. The way he let his brother wrap his arms around him while he sobbed soundlessly into his hands. How he cried until there were no more tears, Sam didn’t ask what happened, he just sat next to him.

 _No._ They don't talk about it. But he sees the pity in their eyes, and somehow that might be worse than talking.

The first few months had been the worst, now, now it was more of a numb ache when a random instance would spark a memory.

A phantom pain, irrecoverable loss. Worse than death because it isn’t death. Cas is alive he just doesn’t want to see Dean.

But yeah, everything’s great, everything’s good. He’s just fuckin _peachy_.

_Peace and Freedom._

* * *

Dean yawns and unlocks the glass door, stumbling across to the alarm panel and punching in the code with the ease of repeated motion. He flips the lights on absent-mindedly, checking the espresso machines and the exits; straightening chairs, operating on muscle memory alone.

A light knock on the front door has him up and over, peaking out the window and unlocking the front door,

“Mornin’ Dean.” Erin says brightly, the chilly autumn air clearly not as bothersome to her as it was to him. “You’re in early.”

He grunts something in response and heads back into the office. Some guy brought in a busted up ’66 Camaro last night right before closing, Guy said he’d heard about Dean, heard he was the best.

Dean figures, busy is better than nothing, and he’s never worked on a Camaro.

He can smell the coffee Erin is brewing, hears the bell over the door ding, first couple customers of the day— early risers, night shift people, some hunters too. Erin’s cheerful voice echoes faintly, she’s good about calling when she needs his help, and he’s gotten pretty adept at using the massive espresso machine on the bar.

It’s funny how things have become so rhythmic without even realizing. The bell rings a few times in a row, Erin calls his name.

* * *

Dean hadn’t been sure about the idea when Erin’d asked him initially, he’d never heard of a coffee shop meets classic car repair meets DIY bike shop, but she’d been so enthusiastic.

Honestly he listened because she had spent more than one night in that first month keeping an eye on his drunk ass while he wallowed in self-loathing and ate nothing but fancy peanut butter and jelly, so he figured he could at least give her a moment.

She sat him down, pulled out binders, and paperwork and projections while he stared blearily through red-rimmed eyes. Something about it sparks a feeling that isn’t quite hope, but it’s adjacent— _purpose_ maybe?

He takes the paperwork to Sam the next day.

* * *

One night in February his phone goes off.

It’s too late for social calls. 

He growls something half intelligible into the receiver, still not all awake, Erin’s crying. Her Dad showed back up, drunk, beating on the door to their little house. She sounds scared, and doesn’t have to ask him to come before he's on his way.

He’s off his bed; rubbing his eyes, punching her address into his GPS and talking calmly about the proper way to bar a door, sticking his gun in the back of his jeans and pulling on his jacket.

GPS says 19 minutes, he makes it in 8.

He meets her Dad outside, barrel chested and belligerent. He’s angry and overwhelmingly petulant for someone so large. Dean doesn’t want to admit he sees a deep reflection of himself in those swollen, raging eyes.

They talk, Dean tries to stay calm, doesn’t pull the gun.

After that, their dad doesn’t show up again, doesn’t even enter the state for a couple years.

* * *

Erin opens up after that, talks while they paint the walls of the coffee shop that closed, she brings leftovers and meals when they have to work all day; shoving them casually at Dean, telling him her mom’s the best cook in Kansas. After Dean tries her pie, he’s likely to believe her.

Little by little she tells her story.

Her mom and dad were from Detroit, she’s the first college graduate in her family, double major in business and marketing. She’s smart, like _Charlie_ smart. Has a twin brother and sister, younger, still in middle school.

She was supposed to be in California working for some bigwig company but Dad lost his job, started drinking more than talking, and beating on her mom and the kids.

So she came home and Dad split with their money, _again_.

“You probably think I’m a dumbass.” She says dryly, they’re staining chairs, Dean’s teaching himself how to use a welding arc. He still has all his fingers, neither of them are blind, they’re both wearing goggles. He considers the whole day a win.

“Nah.” He says softly, “I get it. Trusting people it, it isn’t a such bad thing.”

He sees some of Sam’s fire in her, the same kind strength his brother had when he told their dad he was going to college. Dean’s impressed with who she is, the way she tries and still stays so kind. It’s not that she finds her calling and purpose in starting up a hipster coffee shop/car repair with an old, used-up, dropout like himself, it’s the prospect of having something that’s hers.

He gets it.

“And sometimes, dads are just shit.” He adds, and she laughs so hard she snorts and he almost takes off his thumb.

* * *

A whole month after the grand opening, and they’re making enough to keep the lights on. The gastropub she works in part-time sets up a popup twice a week at night, and the D.I.Y bike repair bays are a hit among hunters and civvies alike.

He called it _Bobby’s_ and told anyone who asked that he named it after his Dad. Erin knows, she’s met the other Bobby now, and despite the fact that she doesn’t know the supernatural details she somehow understands.

The night they open, while half the population of Lebanon and most of the hunter's in the tri-state area are sipping drinks and laughing she walks up to him and tells him quietly that he’s her Bobby.

He cries, blames the champagne, stupid bubbly shit.

* * *

Erin only asked him about Castiel once. Despite her rambling friendliness he found that her kindness and intuitive nature ran deeper.

In the months they’ve been open she became nearly professional at subverting most of their clientele’s advancements on the attractive, if grumpy, owner of their little startup.

For all his self-consciousness about his age, Dean’s still tall and charming, winks and flirts gently withold ladies, talks comfortably about guns and cars and hunting big game with the guys who wander in, is amused or purposefully oblivious to all young comers who try to flirt with him intentionally, but never _quite_ rude.

In a small town these small gestures go a long way; so even if he doesn’t smile without good reason; doesn’t talk much unless spoken to, he gains a slow and steady group of regulars who come in for coffee or repairs sometimes just a look at the handsome green-eyed stranger who lives out at the haunted (probably) lake house.

Erin seems to get it, talks enough for both of them, does her best to keep things light when he has low days. A couple of well-meaning people assume she’s after him, he listens to their insinuations stiffly ready to jump in and defend her honor, until she laughs and shakes her head, changing the subject with a natural ease.

He relaxes his clenches hand and realizes this is okay. _She’_ s okay. Sam and Eileen are good, and he should just suck it up and be fine.

_Fuck that._

* * *

April comes.

Dean wakes up one morning; looks in the mirror and doesn’t recognize himself— can’t remember most of the past 90 days— he smashes every liquor bottle in his house in a rage, then sits down against the wall and stares at nothing until it gets too dark to see.

He wants to burn the jacket. The tie, the clothes that still kinda smell like him.

He wants to burn it all to the ground. The freedom, his new life, all of it.

He doesn’t burn the jacket.

Sam and Eileen come over and stay most weekends like clockwork. They revolve like well-meaning planets around his unstable core, offering food and entertainment, asking gentle questions about his life. They do their best to give him space and still make sure he knows they care.

After that, Garth, or Jody and the girls always seem to stop by on random days: he wonders if they have some sort of "Check on Dean" sign-up sheet in the bunker. He forces himself not to look for it the next time he visits.

* * *

May arrives.

On a whim he offers to let the local chapter of AA use his shop, Wednesdays nights, 7-9pm. He suggests it offhanded and casual to the guy who leads it, while elbow deep in some late model Ford. His palms sweat the whole time he asks. 

The first Wednesday they come he putters around in the background, makes coffee for their meeting, cleans and works on cars; mostly he listens. 

When Erin notices he puts himself on the schedule to close every Wednesday, she doesn't comment.

* * *

By June he runs out of excuses, wipes his hands on a nearby rag, and sits down quietly in the back of their meeting.

When they ask for his name he stands up nervously, heart pounding like it’s his first hunt.

_Might as well disappoint Dad here too._

"I’m Dean." He says, his knees lock, he chews his lip. "I’m uh— I’m pretty sure I’m an alcoholic."

After, he gets back to the house and waters the succulents he rescued from Cas' room. He's managed to keep most of them alive. 

Always thought if he ever admitted out loud that he had a problem that it would uncork all the self-loathing he'd been bottling up his whole life. 

Instead all he feels is relief.

* * *

Sam notices the neat row of plants on his next visit; brings him one of those little spray bottles.

He told Sam via text that he'd celebrated 30 days sober. Less than a second later and Sam's name pops up on the caller ID, startling him.

He tells his brother he doesn't want a fuss, just to spend some time together.

Sam gets there less 30 minutes later with a dozen maple bacon donuts.

They walk out back next to the lake, and Sam shows him how he can throw clay pigeons with his mind.

It’s cheesy, and awkward, Dean’s nearly forgotten how to talk to people who actually know him. Sam knows him better than anyone, loves him regardless; Asks him questions anyway. 

They make a game of it, Sam winging the pigeons into the air with a flick of his head; Dean cracks one eye and shoots each one; his hands don’t shake for the first time in years.

The tension that’s been around for most of their lives eases slowly and suddenly. Sam shyly starts showing off.

A little fire ball, and ‘glamours’ Sam calls ‘em.

“Does it scare you?” He asks suddenly, and he looks like the same little kid who tried to impress his dad and brother with card tricks.

His dad burnt the cards the next day while Sam was asleep, ripped Dean a new one and told him to keep a better watch on his little brother.

“A little.” He admits, “But not of you.” He quickly follows up, noticing for not the first time that his brother is taller, broader and yet so used to hiding the bits of him that stick out.

“Really?” Sam asks, Dean nods, and thrusts his hands in his pockets.

“You hungry?”

"We just ate a dozen donuts Dean."

"So?"

They laugh, and his smile reaches all the way to his eyes. Dean realizes standing there in the sunshine, that he isn’t afraid of Sam anymore. He’s proud.

* * *

Dean wakes up early, most mornings after. Goes for a walk (not a jog _or_ a run, he’s not a goddamn masochist) around his property to process jitters and cravings; starts to pray small prayers while he stands on the dock, sipping coffee and watching the mist rise.

They’re nothing formal not even really aimed toward anyone in particular, little snippets and stories from the day before, stuff about _Bobby’s_ , about Erin, about the house and the work. Erin’s Mother; Lenore, is teaching him how to bake his own pies. They’re talking about opening a little cafe next door, some sort of bakery for Mama B to run.

He talks about Sam and Eileen, Claire too.

She still calls weekly just to bitch. He gives her straightforward advice and occasionally she even takes it. During one of their conversations he cuts across her tirade; says brokenly that he’s sorry about Kaia, about how he treated her.

They talk about anger, how it hurts the people they love, and how he wants to change. She asks casually if he would be okay with them stopping by and staying occasionally, between hunts. He smiles the rest of the day and buys sheets for his all his spare bedrooms.

In their next call, Claire says offhandedly that Cas stopped by, that he looks good; _seems sad_ , but good. Dean didn’t ask, but he’s relieved anyway.

He doesn’t apologize in the prayers.

There’s never an answer, never a flutter of wings and an annoyed “Hello Dean” or even a “Fuck off Dean.”

Dean gets it, he really does.

But _still_ he prays.

At least once a week, usually when the sweet relief of a clear glass bottle are almost too much to bear, he pulls open the desk drawer and stares at the neatly wrapped box, still unopened.

Every time he thinks about throwing it out, every time he doesn't. 

He presses his thumb down on his 60 day chip until it bruises.

* * *

After eight months he wakes up and decides to try, just for himself. If Cas loved the world because of the people in it, why couldn’t he try a little of the same?

His life takes on a still sort of peacefulness, Dean works until close at the shop and then drives Baby out to his house where he either fishes or beats on whatever new construction project he’s dreamed up.

Garth teaches him how to look up YouTube DIY during one of their visits; the two of them end up renovating a whole bathroom that weekend.

He buys the clothes he likes, even if they aren’t practical, and gets reading glasses, cause his eyes hurt when he reads before bed and apparently he’s farsighted as hell. He stops cursing at the grey hairs he sees in the mirror. Mostly.

He even manages to go on few dates, hunters and civvies, guys and girls who’re bold enough to try to engage him in conversation that isn’t work related. He’s always surprised when they ask, but he never turns them down.

He usually does okay, makes it through dinner, pays and all; every time he drops them off and smiles says something about work in the morning— one or two times they linger and smirk in the time-honored way.

He contemplates it, loneliness is a real big thing; but bringing anyone to his house makes him feel like— well, he isn’t there yet.

* * *

Jack still visits, still watches movies, loves the way Dean cooks bacon, tries all of his attempts at homemade pie. Sometimes he helps Dean while he works on the house, holds the flashlight when Dean’s working on Baby the way Sam used to, chatters about Heaven and asks advice on dealing with Amara and Rowena respectively.

Fortunately for Jack both of them seem to adore him enough to not try to violently depose him. Dean also thinks that maybe neither of them feel confident enough to anger any of his fathers.

Over the year, Jack and Sam work together on the uneasy peace between humans and nonhumans. Dean has been involved in a few Earth-New Heaven meetings and he can’t imagine being in the middle of all that shit all the time.

He also doesn’t want to admit that he’s half hoping one of the meetings includes Cas, but if he sees him what the hell would he even say?

_Sorry? I fuck up everything I care about? It’s probably because I—_

Nah.

Sam and Eileen are starting to send out the Witch and Hunter cooperative teams they’ve been dreaming up for the past year. Garth travels and finds families of Non-humans that want peace and might be willing to stand up and change things.

He knows that the Dean of 10 years ago wouldn’t have been able to accept these options, the world was only shades of black and white.

But he’s different now, he’s been changed. Changed by the people who have touched his heart and made room for him in theirs.

Jack, Rowena, Garth, Charlie… Cas.

Besides, changing the way the world works might help kids thrive in a world where they don’t have to grow up the way he did--

well that's something he doesn't even have to think about getting behind.

Eileen insists that Dean joins her on about 2 hunts a month, she tells him it’s good for him, keeps him limber. So they hunt monsters, and humans who act like monsters. Best of all, she doesn’t talk about Cas.

He shakes his head at the onslaught of nostalgia and wipes his sweaty forehead, and lifts the hood of the Camaro.

“Hey Dean!” Erin pops her head in, “Someone’s here to see you, says they’re an old friend.”

* * *

**The Empty**

They stand on the precipice and stare into the yawning chasm.

If they had witnesses they would be a fearsome sight to behold, the last of the heavenly host, poised and solemn in preparation for conflict.

It had taken longer than expected to make it to this field, a scorched and bleak plain somewhere in a time lost. A place between, dotted with scars of bygones.

Castiel, Angel of Heaven, barely acknowledges the sudden appearance of Amara. She is as cold and calculated as ever, clothed for battle. Her time with Jack seems to have done very little to soften her nature.

He does not trust her completely, or the Darkness she commands. But, this is a different world, and he is no hero; he will do his best to change it for the better, that is what he has left as purpose.

“Castiel.” She says, inclining her head slightly when he doesn’t respond.

The Angels give him space, and talk in low whispers. Jack has the tendency to introduce him as “one of my fathers”. They all know Castiel’s story, his inclinations toward humanity, his love of the Nephil-turned-God.

Where respect fails, Castiel is someone to be feared at the very least.

Rowena pops in next, graceful and terrifying even in her most natural form, flanked by two demons who stand head and shoulders above the Angels nearby. She winks at Cas and he ducks his head, flustered as always.

She agreed to tether him as he passes through, and keep the portal from closing on him as long as she’s allowed to reclaim the Demons it holds. Both Amara and Jack have a soft spot for the Queen of Hell and agreed, there are caveats, but for the moment both cosmic powers are attempting to work in tandem.

Less eternal damnation and more of a reform system.

Eremiel manifests, eyeing Castiel and Rowena with a mix of unguarded suspicion and fear.

“We are ready.”

“Lad.” Rowena says quietly to Cas, her hands moving swiftly, preparing the ingredients for her spell and watching her demons and Jack’s angels attempt to intimidate each other in an endless cycle. “We’ve had our differences, I won’t deny it and neither shall you. But, I’ll be _rather_ thankful if you don’ make me return to those Winchesters boys with bad news about their favorite blue-eyed-boy. You know, I would hate to disappoint Samuel for personal reasons. But, our Dean Winchester would hunt me endlessly if you were to perish.”

 _“—Made cherry pie today.”_ The voice tears into his calm like a wild thing, deep and hoarse and as familiar as his own. _“It didn’t suck.”_

She takes in the tightening of Castiel’s expression with a practiced gaze.

“Have you an’ Dean had a row _again_?” As if she didn’t know, she rolls her eyes and picks at a minuscule speck of celestial dust that had the audacity to land on her immaculate outfit. “I think the world would be grateful if ye’ both went to therapy as opposed to pouting at one another with eternal consequences.” She looks over the rift fondly. Cas catches her gaze, seeing Jack speaking animatedly to a group of Demons, they look terrified.

“An’ your son will be pleased that his fathers are speaking again.” He catches Cas and Rowena staring and waves. “He worries about you both.”

 _“—Someone had the goddamn audacity to bring in a Tesla. A_ Tesla!”

Cas sighs uncomfortably, rolling his shoulders; tightening his grip on his blade.“Please open the portal Rowena.”

* * *

The Empty is as he remembers, an abyss where all things may pour and be reduced to less than a memory— nothing. It is a space beyond darkness, void and malevolent in it’s nothingness.

At least with darkness there may be the remembrance of light, but what can be compared to the absence of all?

Castiel takes a step into the nothing and breathes for a moment. The portal sucks closed behind him with a sloshing, wet noise. He remembers frightened green eyes and that noise echoing around them.

He breathes in and out.

Jack and Amara had explained cautiously that they were uncertain of the efficacy of this mission. Their confidence rested on the fact that he was the only Angel, _the only being_ , to escape the Empty, _twice._ Even knowing the risk Castiel had insisted he try it, and go alone.

So here he waits, standing quiet and tall in his own nightmare.

It doesn’t take long.

 _“Back again?”_ The Shadow whispers, their voice is creeping and so old, spiderwebs on ancient tombs. _“I don’t think I’ve ever had a guest return.”_ It muses.

Castiel presses his palm against the cool hilt of his Angel Blade, a steady reminder of what is real and what is not.

“I am Castiel, the One You Could Not Devour. Release all those you hold, for I have returned to see you make good on your name” His voice is steady and deep, echoing across the Emptiness, and every place the sound touches lights up with lightning the color of clear blue skies; “You will give them to me.” 

_“Castiel.”_ They hiss, the places where the light touches the Empty screams.

 _“One who is ‘of God’?”_ They sneer, _“You were nothing but a shadow when I fed on you before, your only claim to power was that you rebelled against a disinterested god— for_ love _.”_ Their lips curl around the word in distaste _._

 _“Do you really think you can defeat me?”_ They assume a face he recognizes, now close, this face intended to inflict pain, green eyes gaze out and it hits its mark. But the voice is still theirs, a perverse twist of memory. _“You will fail and this time I will feast on the love you kept from me.”_ The Empty swirls around his feet, creeping up and around to pull him down, ever down.

Castiel, closes his eyes and reaches for memories, for light.

_Early morning with Dean curled against his side, snoring slightly, a long fingered hand curled possessively around his hip even in sleep. He smells of gun oil and leather and home._

When he opens his eyes, they shine with fire, his blade is open in the air, shimmering and wreathed in flame. He takes a step forward, the darkness at his feet retreats with every step. This time, he feels the movement of spirits around him, the countless nameless multitudes beginning to stir, roused from their deep slumber by his words and memories.

“I have returned for all who you devoured!” He roars, his voice thundering across the vacuum, he thinks of all those lost and in pain, his wings unfurl with a roll of thunder, his grace intensifies, tearing at the seams of this vessel. “You _will_ give them to me!”

The stolen face smiles a glacial smile, there is no warmth in the stolen green eyes that stare out, but there is a glint of fear.

He reaches his hand out before him, the space around is shrieking, the face still stares.

“ _I will not let you take them.”_ They scream in their awful voice, the eyes that are not theirs ooze with black. He does not let the familiar face, distorted in rage and pain distract him from his purpose,

He can feel the way his vessel strains around the shape of his true form. There are eyes manifesting; strings of Enochian symbols swirl midair forming rings in the eerie light, they spread out and around him. Six Wings made of a darkness that is deep, and is not absence but rich and substantial and shimmering with energy, flare out and above him, towering and magnificent.

He is no longer one rebellious angel, he is a multitude of heaven, and he is fearsome to behold in his wrath.

With a deafening cry he is on the entity, his heads snapping, blue fire blazing, the faces of his form howling ancient words of war. He is why those mortals who witnessed the sight of an angel were too terrified to speak, he is life and death and glorious retribution given form.

He loses himself in the ancient songs of righteous battle for which he was created, The Empty seems to lose it's grip, the darkness shifting away from him like a pebble dropped in a puddle; Castiel exists all at once on every battlefield in every place at all times and he is infinite and terrible, sword blazing against the deep.

"I have returned for the ones you have consumed.” His voice is a legion, all those who have been lost for an eternity lend their strength. “Give them to _me_!”

A single bolt of lightning rends the dark—

* * *

Jack is waiting when the seam to the Empty belches outward with a flare of light, along with a seemingly endless fountain of black slime.

A hand pushes through first, followed by a shoulder and a head: Castiel falls out of the rupture carrying across his shoulders another human shape coated in black, his hand wrapped around another figure’s waist.

They lay unmoving,

“There are more inside.” He gasps through slime, “They need help getting out.”

The small force surrounding the portal look to their respective leaders who nod quietly.

“It is defeated.” He coughs up more of the stuff, and wipes his face in annoyance. “They have no reason to fear.”

Jack kneels beside him, he nods once, a brief warm smile, letting his son know he’s okay. The body beside him is breathing faintly, begins to cough, the other is just lying there.

Cas turns and smacks his back, wiping the goo gently from the other’s face, clearly concerned at their lack of movement. A trickle of grace glides across into them; Jack watches curiously. The unknown figure rolls onto his knees and retches black goo.

Cas watches him with sticky concern, by now others are being dragged back through the tear, all in similar states of confusion and disarray.

The prone figure breathes shallowly.

“This _might_ make us even.” The first figure says dryly, both hands scrubbing the filth from his face. Cas is smiling faintly and nods, crouched next to him.

“I believe that is fair, after I went insane and murdered you.”

“Nearly forgot that bit.” The Angel groans, flopping onto his back, and coughs. “But I see you’ve done your best to make it right, more than I would do.” He admits, he notices Jack standing nervously nearby.

“This is new god?” The figure takes him in.

Cas nods, his eyes proud, “My son, Jack.”

He appraises him carefully. “Evening your worship. My name is Balthazar.”

The other figure is stirring, hearing their voices “Well _goddamn_ Clarence.” She laughs, still on her back. “You were the unicorn after all.”

* * *

It takes longer than anyone anticipated to scour The Empty for lost Angels and Demons. The exact number entombed is unknown, and there is a great deal of assimilation necessary from both Heaven and Hell to organize their ranks and send everyone to their proper place.

Not all those who were sent to the Empty are allowed free roam in their respective realms. Jack and Rowena have much to evaluate.

“— _some asshat tried to tell me how to fix a chevy last night—_ me, _fuck if I don’tknow how to work on—“_

As though through deep water he hears the garbled raspy voice; his heart trembles.

Cas is sleepless and constant, making trip after trip into the Rift pulling out friend and foe alike.

He stops for neither rest of respite, his true form lingers hazily around his vessel, snapping at anyone who dares tread too close. If he stops he can feel the acid burn around the edges— but he cannot rest until he has saved all he hurt and the list is ever long.

* * *

**October 14**

“Uh hey? Castiel?”

Sam stands outside the bunker and stares up to the sky. “I know it’s been a while, Jack says you’ve been busy with the uh, the Empty— and uh, everything, but I figured you’d want to know, it’s about Dean, he’s uh, he’s missing—”

A sound so familiar, the rustle of wind and wings. Sam turns and there he is, dressed in his usual, though he seems tired. His broad shoulders forced ramrod straight.

His eyes are the same, glowing incandescently for an instant, the only indication of his near-deity. A half second later another familiar figure pops into place beside him.

“What happened?” Cas asks, and Sam makes no attempt to hide the relief in his face, he takes a moment; waves at Balthazar.

“He, uh, went on a hunting trip, he hasn’t been back in a few days.” Sam runs a hand over his face. “Erin— the uh, the co-owner of _Bobby’s_ , she uh— called me from his phone, said someone showed up right before he left; They came to the shop and asked for help. Said something about uh Claire—“

Cas’ head twists sharply at the name. He disappears,

“Long time no see.” Sam calls to Balthazar, who grins roguishly and inclines his head, Cas reappears a moment later.

“Claire is with Kaia, they are hunting _rougarou_ , she has not spoken to him in over a week. Where did he say he was going?”

Sam sighs. “That’s the thing. He didn’t. Just took off, sent me a random text that he’d be back in a couple days… for some reason I thought he might have gone out with one of the other teams, but he only goes out with Eileen lately, I feel like a fuckin’ idiot, but it’s been crazy with all the stuff we’re working on down here, and well you know with heaven and hell going through l—“

“—I understand.” Cas cuts in. “Have you checked his room at the bunker?”

Sam shakes his head. “He doesn’t sleep at the bunker, hasn’t for like… I dunno, five months? Six months?”

Cas ignores the twinge of emotion. “Have you checked with whomever he has been staying with?”

“Not—“ Sam sighs, he wasn’t mentally prepared for jealousy to be part of this conversation. “ _No one_ Cas. He’s been out at his house by the lake— He lives out there by himself—and, gone _again_.“ Sam exhales, he forgot how annoying angels are about blipping out with no warning.

Balthazar shrugs, “He thinks it makes him mysterious when he does it.” He says; snaps his fingers and he’s holding a goblet. “May I offer you a Shiraz in these trying times?"

* * *

Cas blinks into place outside the house— he frowns— it doesn't even look like the same house Dean nervously toured him all those nights ago.

He walks up the gleaming steps, across the neat paving stones, past the mowed yard, ignoring the ghostly memories of Dean that night. How he had smiled and chattered about re-doing the porch— his excitement over having something that was _his_ for the first time in his adult life, how painfully eager he'd been for Cas to approve. To stay.

Cas flies through the outer wall and into the hall, noting the hook where his truck keys hang gathering dust. He blinks on lights as he moves, it’s been a long time since he’s had the Earth below his feet, everything inside him feels tight and heavy. His true form is restless beneath flesh and bone.

The wood floors gleam in the warm light; the grey-blue paint is fresh and neat, the house smells like cinnamon and leather.The whole place reminds Cas of Dean's small room in the bunker, tidy and quaint. The walls are dotted with memories: artistic car parts, band memorabilia and countless photographs. Most of the furniture seems handmade; earthy and overstuffed.

No weapons in sight.

The kitchen light was left on, drawing him in. This space is wide and bright, coffee machine gleaming in the corner; couple of books stacked haphazardly on the island in the center. Cookbooks mostly, a car repair manual, two books on sign language, one on the care and keeping of succulents.

Couple stickie notes on the fridge: deadlines, phone numbers, recipes, all liberally splashed with way too many question marks.

A tiny kitchen timer shaped like a bee sits imperiously on the stove, Cas regards it for more seconds than he’d like to admit, fingers reaching out to touch. A tactile human response.

He skips the stairs and flies directly into the master bedroom, decorated with the same warring sense of comfort and economy.

He strides across to the large, imposing bed, Cas’ Angel blade is not under the pillow. The bed is still made, no extra toothbrushes or clothes out of place. There’s a pair of reading glasses on the side table, a couple paperbacks: westerns, Cas brushes a fingertip across the dog-eared edges, his lips twitch at the vintage-car bookmarks. He notes a stack of vinyl leaned up against the wall, but no record player.

Cas pushes past all of these little things with a gentle touch here, a glance there, keeping his gaze forcibly clinical and uninterested, as though the house itself doesn’t smell and feel like Dean. His throat constricts, chest tightening.

He’s about to rejoin Sam— unwilling to spend much longer in this private space— but he notices a box, tucked between two books on the opposite, bedside table, the wrapping is familiar, green and red— ' _Tacky as hell, as it should be'_ , Dean had said.

He touches it softly, twisting the tag,

_To: Cas_

_From: Dean_

There’s a crudely drawn winky face after both of their names.

Cas drops it back onto the side table.

He flies back to Sam.

“He’s not home.”

“Yep. We know. I checked this morning.” Sam retorts. “I’m distracted, Cas, not a complete jackass. I go over there at least once a week— do you really think I’d leave him alone after what happened on Christmas—“ He ignores Cas’ dark look, Balthazar’s ears practically perk up at the potential gossip. Sam would bet money Cas has been less than forthcoming about his time on Earth, and they are _not_ going to just blaze past it. “I’m not placing blame, just— he was pretty messed up alright?”

“I know. I—” His direct gaze drops. “I heard.”

Sam nods trying to hide his surprise.”Oh. Well, I wouldn’t have called unless we had exhausted all the other— you were the last resort, trust me. Eileen figured you might be able to zero in on his location: _Profound bond_ and everything, And…” Sam presses his lips into a thin line.. “We think it might be something to do with one of the demons you guys pulled out of the Empty.”

“Why didn’t you say earlier?”

* * *

As much as they had tried to prevent it, the mass exodus from the Empty had been messy. Demons and Angels had slipped through and disappeared back to earth with grudges to settle.

Much of Castiel’s responsibility had been hunting down the various “war criminals” and returning them to their proper authority for assimilation and education on how the worlds worked now. But up until this point it hadn’t been quite so personal, Castiel peers at the dingy warehouse, opening his inner eyes, noting the shimmer of warding in annoyance.

For the first time in 10 months he reaches out across their bond: instantly gold-tipped pain and yearning comes screaming down their connection. The pain spikes unexpectedly and he leans into it, trying to pinpoint his charge’s location. The agony is overwhelming; excruciating in detail.

“We’ll need help.” Balthazar intones, his eyes are lazy, but calculated, darting over the building with an expert gaze. “Whoever is in there is anticipating that you won’t be able to stay away.”

Castiel nods, with a flutter he’s gone.

* * *

“Didn’t expect to see you so soon Clarence.”

Meg smiles. She looks good, like before, not covered in black gunk and too weak to stand on her own.

“It’s about Dean”

“It always is with you.” She teases, shifting back comfortably in her seat, “Thought you two broke up?”

“We were never—“ He scowls and picks at his sleeve. “Who told you that?”

“Balthazar.” Her eyes jump to the celestial in question, standing slightly behind Castiel who turns and glowers.

“Didn’t he say?” She continues, “He sits next to me during the big, inter-celestial, bi-weekly meetings I’m part of now. He’s _fun_. Told me how emo you’ve been about everyone’s favorite hillbilly twunk—” Her tone is singsong, familiar; he is relieved that she holds no grudges against Dean,

“I don’t know what that—“

“Trust me, I’m right.”

“She is.” Balthazar affirms.

Cas blinks twice. “I still need your help.”

She sighs dramatically. “I mean, It’s a little kinky, since I’m sorta your ex, and you’re asking me to help out your new ex. But I guess I’m sorta a good guy now— liasing for the _Queen—_ and we’re still bffs right?” She grabs a familiar leather jacket and stands.

“Plus, you saved me from like, an endless, dreaming, hellhole and beat the shit out of something that’s pretty much older than death.” She raises her eyebrows. “You’ve gotten badass Clarence, it’s pretty hot.”

“Yes.” He replies tonelessly squinting a little; she can see the worry in his eyes, “You will help?”

She stands; slaps him on the back, leaning forward to kiss him on the cheek. “‘Course I will Angel.”

* * *

Meg detaches herself from a nearby shadow and saunters up to the waiting duo. Temporary Captain of the heavenly host or not, he looks annoyed and fidgety.

“Well, you were right boys, he’s in there.”

He exhales, “He is alive?”

“Do you think I’d be out here if he wasn’t?” She snarks, and crosses her arms. “Our Deano is holding on, _barely_. They’ve got him strung up like a rotisserie chicken.” Her eyelids drop, “Be careful, we’re lookin’ at a professional in there Wings, he’s cuttin’ on Dean with skill.”

He ignores her teasing tone, heart clenching with every word. “Do you know who?”

She shrugs, “Some lesser demon we pulled out, I’m not overly familiar with his name—Belphe—“

“Belphegor.” Cas jaw clenches. “We have history.”

“Bingo baby.” She sits on the hood of an abandoned car, crosses her legs. “I got rid of most of the basic wards without em’ noticing, you two can go in there now but your fancy jazz hands trick isn’t gonna cut it.” She shrugs. “Don’t look at me like that— they woulda noticed If I took down anything else.” She winks at Balthazar. “I figured, you’d be okay since there are two of you? I’m sure I don’t have to say it but, Rowena will be pleased if you bring the demons inside back intact—” She sighs, Castiel is already striding toward the warehouse. “ _You’re welcome._ Tell Dean I said hi—”

Balthazar throws his hand out and bows dramatically walking backwards after Castiel, Meg blows a kiss and with a laugh, she’s gone.

* * *

Dean can no longer see out of his left eye, the brow bone is probably fucked; his right eye is nearly crusted shut with dried blood.

He wheezes through broken lips and takes inventory of the pain. Torture only really breaks you if the pain is all you can focus on.

By his reckoning, he has six broken fingers… maybe seven. They started with his hands, he couldn’t fault them; It was torment 101. Work your way in. Make it count without too much blood-loss.

One shoulder, is definitely dislocated; the other arm had been stomped pretty badly after he’d tried to escape for the third time. Dean had been hanging by his wrists for hours which wasn’t helping anything, it honestly might be worse than he thinks, but he hasn’t been able to feel from the shoulders up for at least a day.

_Focus up Dean._

Nose: smashed flat, breathing is sharp and painful; pretty sure a cheekbone shattered when they jumped him.

He fought, of course he fought. He’s semi-retired not a complete pantywaist asswipe.

Both ankles busted; another gift courtesy of his escape attempt. No more running off. Maybe no more running period. He tries not to think about that too much.

Honestly, he’s mostly annoyed that this is gonna set back repairs for months.

He’s also pissed at _himself_ , he should have been more careful. He knew, _knew_ the man waiting for him had been possessed, but he said he had _Claire_ , and said if Dean didn’t come quietly he’d kill her and then come back and murder Erin and her little brother and sister, describing in low and explicit terms what he’d do to the kids if Dean refused.

Dean managed to get a single text out to Sam without the guy noticing. Out of practice but he’s not a damn fool. He hoped that since hadn’t left the county alone in months, that his random “trip” would be weird enough for Sam to look into it.

Even before they arrived at the warehouse, he knew they probably never had Claire. He was the only human in the vicinity, flitting black eyes and inhuman movements under soft skin all around. They stared with either fear or contempt and each new glance was followed up with a new kind of pain.

Hours trickled into days, hope dwindling with each snap of bone or slice of skin.

Dean starts to wonder if this is it.

His end in blood.

“ _Pray_.” The Demon instructs.

Again and again and again.

“He won’t come.” He mumbles, drooling blood, it’s hard to brace against a punch when your arms are numb. Everything is starting to get hazy; between the blood loss and fatigue.

Belphegor, sits off to the side, cleaning his nails with a long jagged blade. “Do you really think I believe that? _Castie_ l won’t come for _you?_ ”

The body is different, still young, male, the smirk is the same, jagged and too wide. His primary torturer takes a step back, reaching for another tray of even nastier looking instruments. Belphegor hasn’t touched him yet, only watched with a fond sort of glee.

It’s time for Dean to sink into a different place, hell taught him more than one thing. His eye shuts:

_He’s driving Baby, the windows are rolled down, there’s a warm breeze, no speed limit, he can see Cas in the rearview, sound asleep, frowning softly, his hair is curled over his eyes._

_Sam is sitting cross-legged on the bench beside him, reading out loud from a passage of some ancient book, music croons in the background._

_Sam turns; eyes black as night._

_“Pray”_ _Sam commands. Dean is tired. He doesn’t want to pray, it will wake Cas._

_He can hear the crunch of gravel beneath the tires, and not the sound of small bones being snapped to unnatural angles, he hears someone scream, it’s his scream._

_But it can’t be. Cas is still asleep. He turns the music up._

* * *

Cas smells blood. _Dean’s_ blood. Heavy and thick.

Balthazar follows silently, his eyes trained on his leader, watching closely for signs of distress.

He smells the blood too, can feel the human’s distress piercing his senses. Angels were created to be empathetic beings, watchful protectors. Castiel is even more intensely connected to Dean, Balthazar can only imagine how much worse it is for him.

A door swings open to the right, Cas doesn’t even glance backward, knowing that Balthazar will make quick work of him. Movement, too fast for the naked eye; the Demon is subdued, exorcised with a few carefully whispered words.

Castiel halts.

They cannot simply jump from place to place inside the wards here. This hunt is more visceral; they rely on the metallic taste of gore in the air to lead them toward their quarry.

Two more demons fall to the ancient predators. These don’t even have time to warn each other before they’re merely former vessels slumped unconscious.

“He’s ahead.” Cas grinds out. Before them, a hard metal door with light through the crack beneath, a bloody handprint on the doorframe.

They hear a muffled scream, laughter. Balthazar watches for his leader’s signal; like he has done for untold millennia. Castiel’s nostril’s flare, the air around them feels like it could ignite with his fury.

The sword drops gleaming from Castiel’s sleeve, a careful, expert flip and he’s off at a run toward the door. Shadows rise around them, their true forms bite and gnash below the surface, eager to manifest into this plane.

“Not going for the element of surprise then,” Balthazar calls, still keeping watch, knowing he isn’t heard; that in this moment nothing in or out of creation will keep Castiel, former Captain of the Garrison of the Most High, from Dean Winchester.

* * *

The door slams inward, two beautiful and terrifying creatures burst in, their swords gleam like fire and ice, their presence suffocates with barely repressed grace.

The demons recognize them in an instant, Belphegor’s host falls backward, he takes one moment and a cloud of black smoke is released from his mouth.

Balthazar fells one demon before he can escape, the torturer trips in his haste to flee, Castiel is above, eyes glowing, his hand catches the cloud of smoke and forces it back inside the host. A few whispered words of Enochian and he’s trapped, bound by grace. Another demon is fleeing— he flings his blade and catches the demon between the shoulder blades with a scream.

Only then does he turn to look at figure hanging suspended, his blood drips into a pool beneath his mangled bare feet. He’s worse than Cas expected, barely recognizable beneath the injuries and crusted bile and gore.

Castiel bends, murmurs soft words into his ear. Then nods to Balthazar, with a single cut the chain holding Dean aloft is severed; he falls into Cas’ waiting arms.

Cas kneels, cradling the hunter in his arms.

Another door bursts in, these Demons are prepared; armed with shotguns. Balthazar turns to fight and protect; there’s no thought, only Dean. His body shivers; wings manifest in a blast of darkness and cocoon them both inside.

* * *

_The music on the radio plays louder. Dean looks into the rear-view, checks on his angel._

_Cas’ eyes are open, so blue it hurts, they meet his gaze in the mirror. His lips are moving, he’s saying Dean’s name over and over._

_Dean just wants to sleep, he know’s he can’t, cause he’s driving— or… he was? The radio is still playing. But the lyrics aren’t right. He’s falling, Castiel is reaching out— but Dean can’t quite—_

_“Dean, open your eyes.”_

The tone is commanding, familiar, he can’t resist. But he doesn’t want to go back to that room.

_“Dean, come back to me.”_

He slowly cracks open one eye. It’s semi-dark and shadowed.

“Not real.” He thinks, or says, everything is muddied together.

“Dean, _please_.” The voice is softer, begging, he can feel warm hands on his face, not harming, cradling. “Please come back.”

He’s being held, his injuries are screaming painfully as blood begins to flow back into broken places.

Dean opens his eye again, he’s crushed against a warm chest, completely enveloped by strong arms. He’s bleeding all over whoever the hell they are, he feels hazy and sorry. But, he recognizes their scent, clear and crisp like high mountain pines, the burning aroma of ozone and lightning strikes.

“Why didn’t you call out to me.” The voice asks from near his ear. It’s dark around them, light filters through, oddly mottled and shifting, like forest floors or ocean beds.

“Why didn’t you pray?” It’s angry, but broken, sounding like the real fury is being held back.

“You came for me.” Dean murmurs, still trying to understand the gently iridescent layer between them and the room.

“They used a hell-kissed blade.” He hears a familiar voice say, muffled. “Bloody well prepared— looks like you might've be the real target. You can come out now. We’ve dispatched them.”

Another voice, a female tone, “ _Damn Clarence_ , never seen a pair like yours. You’re—” She whistles. “—Well, I’d say beautiful, if it didn’t make me sound like such a sap. _Shit._ ” Sudden bright light makes him wince; Dean blearily notes the bodies of his captors strewn across the floor of the room. "He looks rough."

“You’re not going be able to heal him easily.” Says the man, it must be a dream, he knows the owner of those voices, all long dead. “Rowena might be able to help.”

“Will you let Sam know he’s been found?” Castiel growls. “That I am taking him.”

He hears a sound of agreement,

“You did good Clarence.” She, _Meg_ , is has to be Meg, nobody else calls Cas shit like that, “ _And_ he’s still alive. I can let our new bosses know too. Belphegor got away.”

He’s having trouble keeping everything straight, the room stinks of blood, Dean retches, tries to fight his way out of his rescuer’s arms, but they hold him tightly and keep striding forward.

“ _Where_ are you taking him?” She calls, and Dean can feel himself starting to slip into unconsciousness, the pain is starting to tear at his mind.

“Home.”

* * *

**October 16**

Dean jerks awake with a cry.

He can hear the sound of rain.

He closes his eye, falls back against the pillows. At first he thinks he’s dreaming, then his body begins to complain at his consciousness.

After a few minutes he feels brave enough to open his eye again, the other apparently bandaged shut.

Eyes closed. Panic rises.

_Take stock. Take a breath._

Eyes open.

 _His_ room, _his_ house, grey light coming through the window.

He tries to remember. _Sam must have figured out where I was_ ,

His eyes slide shut, relieved tears leaking from underneath in relief, focuses on listening to the raindrops hit his roof. He leafs through the fuzzy memories, skips across the days of pain; pausing on the last few bursts of color and sensation—

 _Meg? Balthazar?_

_Cas._

His mind is groggy with the familiar wobble of some sort of pain medication. He would have said no, hates how this shit makes him feel.

Footsteps, the second step from the top creaks. He left it that way on purpose. Being a hunter is a lifetime occupation.

He reaches instinctively for the Angel-blade under his pillow, his fingers are tight and creaky in their gauze, they refuse to move properly. He preps to throw himself forward like a gauzy juggernaut; clenched fists stumbling clumsily, legs wrapped in his sheets.

“Hello Dean.”

_No no no._

His fists fall open, and he loses all momentum, sinking back against the pillow.

Castiel’s head tilts, hands raised to steady the hunter,

“I am real.” He assures, “We’re real. You’re home.” Cas stays in the doorway, looking so unfamiliar without his coat and tie, his white dress shirt stained with dried blood, hair a wild thicket.

“You look like shit.” Dean breathes, a cut reopens on his cheek and lips as he speaks.

The smallest quirk at the corner of Cas’ mouth, he moves quietly like a cat across the space of the room and sits in the chair, which Dean notices is definitely from the living room; now pulled close to the bedside.

_Bastard’s been back for 5 minutes and is already moving his shit around. Whatever, it’s fine._

“How are you feeling?” Cas says, his hands politely crossed on his lap.

“Oh, you know.” Dean replies hoarsely, heart clenching up so hard it hurts, “Been through worse.” He coughs and it sounds painful, Cas is already holding a glass of water, tilting it gently for him to drink.

“How’s heaven?” He asks when he can breathe again.

Cas shrugs, sinking elegantly into the overstuffed chair. “Full again, hopeful for the first time in ages, I’m sure Jack has told you—“

“We don’t talk business much.” _We don’t talk about you,_ Is what he means.

“I see.” The rain tapping on the window grows louder. Full blown Kansas storm.

Cas drops his gaze suddenly; Dean can hear the whisper of movement, like birds’ wings. “You know about the fall of the Empty?”

Dean nods.

He wonders if the Angel knows how he had been worried sick for months until Jack sent a messenger to tell him their campaign was complete.

 _None lost_.

The Angel had added carefully, as though instructed.

“Sure, heard some things, that uh, it’s getting better up there for you… all.”

“Yes.” Cas agrees, he stands unexpectedly. Dean moves quicker, fear motivating him against his protesting wounds; he grabs hold of the Angel’s wrist.

“You’re leaving?” He asks. _Please_ , _Not yet._

Cas’ frown gentles, he pauses, reaching down to try to carefully uncurl Dean’s clenched and bandaged fingers.

“I am going to let Sam know that you’re awake, he has called many times. I also need to check in with my Garrison.” He is uncertain of the meaning behind hunter’s reaction, Dean’s grip is still strong around his wrist, scarlet blood already seeping through the gauze.

“I will come back.” He says awkwardly, patting Dean on the back of the wrist.

Then, as an afterthought, but he can still remember the color of the motel room where the Hunter seriously explained the value of one’s word.

“Dean, I promise.”

* * *

“So, _Castiel_ what’s the plan?” Balthazar’s voice is low, nearly bored.

He stands ready, wearing his customary v-neck and skintight jeans; flips the blade in his hand experimentally. Human eyes can’t pick up the battle sigils tattooed on his bones, some even scarred into the skin. Castiel wonders if vessels would be so willing to be tied to a being that would treat them thus.

“What plan?”

“Well he’s been scouted now- your little human _inamorato_ —and since you’ve become heaven’s top bounty hunter, you and I both know that demons and naughty angels alike are going to come for him to get to you—“

Not many would guess that Balthazar was one of the most brilliant tacticians raised up by heaven. He should have surpassed Castiel millennia ago, but always chose instead to be his second.

“You’re being dramatic, not everyone knows that I was—“

“Producing directing and starring in a very exciting episode of _Touched By an Angel?_ Pounding him into tomorrow with a smile on his face?”

_Perhaps the reason for his lack of promotion was because none other would put up with his insubordination._

Castiel sighs, sharp eyes picking out the various sentries. “Not many realize that we were... intimate”

Balthazar scoffs, “Wait, you really think that? Castiel, you literally engraved his ribs with y _our words_ , old son. I realize that it was not entirely suspect in hindsight, at least _on the larger Winchester_ , but when one looks quite closely at the Enochian on Dean’s however,” He clicks his tongue. “On top of the fact that he now _reeks_ of your grace. I mean, you practically spray painted “Castiel was here, DO NOT ENTER” across his naughty bits—“

“I was mostly human at the time. Humans are… territorial.”

“Uh-huh,” Balthazar intones sympathetically, “And clearly you made the most of that eh?” He tilts his head back and smiles, the blade reflects moonlight as he tosses it. “So, I ask again, what’s the plan: are you going to just tie him up in the basement to keep all comers from wreaking revenge on him? Come by every couple days to make sure he’s sated?” His eyes go hazy, Castiel clears his throat. “I wonder though, if I could start some sort of _tour… ‘In this very house, Angel of the Lord, Castiel— you guessed it, Now-Archangel and Savior of heaven made heart eyes at that hunter, and gay love pierced through the veils of death and hell itself—”_

 _“—_ You’re testing my patience Balthazar.” His voice is a low growl, they’re padding soundlessly toward the low outer wall. Castiel catches a demon off guard, disarms him lightly, hand to the forehead.

He adjusts; whispers a low prayer, a message for Rowena. “I am not an archangel.”

Balthazar rolls his eyes dramatically, his eyes glow slightly in the near dark, they speak in low tones. “I’m just saying, _so what_ you’re not soulmates, last I checked _you_ don’t have a soul, Doesn’t that make the situation altogether more lurid and delightful _because_ you _chose_ him and he chose you? And then cue…” He imitates a breathy gasp and some slapping noises, a nearby Demon turns his head at the sound, Castiel is swift and quiet like a shadow, Balthazar trips another and presses two fingers to its forehead.

“Seriously though, you changed everything— Chuck, well the bastard kept trying to course correct you so you’d follow his plan, painfully, as I’ve heard it from Meg— delightful creature really—and _every time_ you chose the Winchester boy. Who yes, has his charms and probably looks absolutely _delicious_ in _flagrante—_ but who, for the rest of us, is just some guy with a penchant for wiping out higher powers and bloody awful taste in flannel.”

Cas feels his vessel bristle at the words, he isn’t _some guy_. Dean is the dawn breaking over green hills and storms on gray seas. He is fire and pain and kindness and sacrifice—

“Your yearning is showing Castiel.” Balthazar says, nose wrinkling in disgust, whether at the lurid graffiti written in bastardized Enochian or the concept of love.

“I am _not_ the lumberjack you’re looking for.” He wiggles his fingers, there’s a beat, his eyes widen. “Good grief, You still love him.” But he knows the answer already, the smell of sulfur is heavy in their nostrils. Demons are close; they’re less cautious when they think their wards are strong.

“Yes.” Cas admits, and the dam breaks. “Balthazar nothing has changed about what I feel for Dean Winchester, he is… the most frustrating _human_ I've ever _—_ I thought I was _fine_ , fighting for freedom in heaven, saving lives, making up for… all of my choices. And then he— _”_ His human vocal cords betray him and his voice cracks.

He’s furious and disappointed and he was not created to hold such emotions.

“He wouldn’t even _pray_ to me. He didn’t think I would come. Even when…” His body tightens and he punches through a wall. Four demons round the corner, he and Balthazar work in perfect terrifying tandem. When their enemies are dispatched they stand, breathing evenly among the carnage. “Even when they did _those things_ to him.”

He remembers how Dean had felt, the resigned despair ringed in agony. Dean was sure he was going to die, he felt the regret yes, but also _relief._

Balthazar lights a cigarette, “Which is why I’m assuming we are _personally_ out in what… Idaho? With your BFF Bal, wiping out a Demon… what are we calling them? It’s vampire _nest_ , Witch _coven_ … Demon…Legion?” His nose wrinkles. “Is that what we’re calling It these days?”

“I don’t know if I can do it again Balthazar.” Cas interrupts, “12 _years_ I spent next to him, and every time I endured the pain of leaving, his rage, his guilt, his loathing. I can’t do this if it’s going to be the same as it has been.”

“Isn’t that part of it though? The pain and the endless cycling arguments and little growths, and decisions? Isn’t that what made you love humanity in the first place, their constant circle of messy choices? Rebelling for Dean would not seem to be the easy option and yet you made it without hesitation as I recall, in fact, you _thwarted your creator_ — because you saw how much they struggle to do the right thing and you love them for it."

"Perhaps loving Dean Winchester is just another gloriously improbable choice you will make, and this time, perhaps it will change you both for the better. Be happy Castiel. _For you_ , for no one else. Not because you owe it to _anyone_ other than yourself.” He shrugs, and then gags dramatically. “God that was unbearably soppy. Shall we kick some demon ass?”

* * *

Belphegor laughs from his knees,

“Good to see you too Cas.” He says, spits blood and leans sideways.

“Give me one reason I shouldn’t rip you apart.” Cas stands tall and calm, belying the barely concealed fury in his voice.

“You're losing your touch Wings, _I’m a demon_.” Belphegor shrugs. “I mean, _I’d_ rip me apart for shits and giggles.”

“Why did you go after Dean Winchester?”

“Well,” The Demon considers. “I wanted to hurt you, ya know, cause you smoked me and made me feel shitty about myself.” Another shrug, “Ever since I got shat out of the empty, I’ve been sorta… _bored?_ And I thought, wonder what my ol’ buddy Cas has been up to? _Then_ lo and behold, the word on the street is you’ve been balls deep in Dean Winchester. Shoulda figured you’d be on top— it’ll all in the eyebrows.”

He winks.

Balthazar stands off to the side and watches the interaction, clearly entertained.

“I’m going to send you to Rowena.” Cas replies flatly. “Your treatment at her hands will depend on what you tell me here.”

The Demon half smiles, tilts his head. “I mean, if you insist. Heard the old lady doesn’t even let us torture much anymore, and only the ones who ‘deserve it’ ” He leans closer, “Did he, did _Dean_ , tell you what I did to him? I mean you saw…” He shivers gleefully, “I mean, I learned from the best— _him_ — actually.” He’s practically wriggling with enjoyment. “And boy did I make him _scream._ Wouldn’t give you up though…true love I guess. Kinda gave me a lil demon boner.” Belphegor’s eyes widen. “It was less fun this time around, since I wasn’t wearing your son—”

Castiel punches him hard,

Balthazar steps in. “Shouldn’t let him rile you up.” He says, “Exorcise him and we can go home.”

Cas wants to, but he saw the room. Set up so specifically to mimic the one Dean had been housed in hell all of those years ago.

“ _Why?”_ He growls, “ _Why him?_ What is the ulterior motive here?”

Belphegor has the audacity to laugh,

“ _Motive_? No motive. Just pain, your pain, _his_ pain who the fuck cares? Suffering _is_ the universal equalizer. If I hurt him, I hurt you, cause you ‘wuv’ him, or…" He purses his lips thoughtfully, "Is it just humanity these days? Grapevine also says the band sorta broke up” His borrowed eyes twinkle. “Regardless, I engineered a perfect and exquisite moment: Cas and Dean reunited at last— what if you had been too late?” He gasps dramatically. “What if, what if, what if.” He laughs again, shakes his head. “It’s my nature, you and I both know that. So either fuck off _or_ send me home to mummy for being a naughty boy.” His voice twists dangerously. “But know this, _Castiel,_ next time I get my hands on him, I will leave more than marks. Maybe get a lil' taste of thee famous Dean Winchester, _in a biblical sense_ , in honor of you.”

Castiel takes off his suit jacket, folding it neatly and placing it on the nearby chair.

Balthazar winces, and begins his apologetic prayer to heaven and then to Rowena herself.

* * *

**  
October 17**

Dean’s phone buzzes on the bedside table.

Colors blur as he winces into consciousness and reaches sideways, fumbling with the password and squinting at the screen blearily. He grabs his glasses off the side table, most of the notifications are replies to texts he doesn’t recognize.

They appear to be a repeated variation of “I am well. Do not worry.” And an odd assortment of emojis, it’s phrased so awkward and stilted that it’s followed up by several even _more_ concerned texts. When he reads Sam’s messages it starts to make sense, as Sam figured out within a few words he was actually communicating with Cast—

_Cas._

He sits up, realizing both eyes seem to be up and running, kicking off covers, his left arm is in a cast from the elbow down, he could have sworn it was just fingers.

Cas’ familiar trench slides off the bed; landing with an oddly solid thump. Dean swipes it from the floor groaning all along, rifling curiously through the pockets. His unbroken fingers stumble upon a piece of worn plastic, a cassette tape and familiar writing.

_“It’s a gift. You keep those.”_

For the first time in 10 months, Dean Winchester has hope.

* * *

Cas is sitting in the kitchen at the wide kitchen table, sipping coffee; staring out the window at the moon. He turns his head stiffly like a bird, watching Dean hobble down the stairs, the moonlight lighting his profile like a halo and Dean’s heart aches at the sight.

“Nah, don’t get up.” He snarks, trying to keep cool, leaning weakly, tottering from one major surface to another, Cas inclines his head toward the nearby chair and it slides out soundlessly. Dean sits heavily and takes the offered glass of water. “So, you’re still here.”

Cas’ gaze slips back to the sky and he nods gracefully.

It feels like a dream: an Angel sitting in his kitchen looking soft and rumpled, no suit jacket, no tie, just a simple white shirt, buttons undone or ripped off. The barest shadow lingers around his broad shoulders, his knuckles are bloody and unhealed.

Dean runs a hand through his hair self consciously, it’s gotten so long that it tickles the top of his ears when he moves.

He’s struck by a memory; their very first argument was in a kitchen. Back when Dean was all fire and ignorance, foolishly picking fights with a messenger of god who could have ripped him out of existence as easy as breathing.

“Thanks for uh, for healing me.” He hates how breathless he sounds.Honestly it’s taking more than a concentrated effort to keep a stupid eager smile off his face at the mere sight of the angel for the first time in almost a year. The same bubble of happy that always made it’s way to the surface when the Angel would return to his orbit.

Castiel doesn’t seem to share his eagerness,

“I did as much healing as I could. Belphegor used a specific type of weapon on you, cursed by fallen angels. Those wounds resisted my grace.” He shifts slightly, a scowl contorting his features at the mention of the demon. “Dean. Why didn’t you pray? I heard them ask—“

“I didn’t think you’d come.” Dean responds calmly, and it’s honest and painful, “I’ve been praying to you— _at_ you since—““

“I heard.” Cas says, looking uncomfortable, the frown remains.

“Oh.” Dean flushes, continues awkwardly. “Uh, plus, I figured they were trying to trap you once I saw Belphegor. I mean, even from where I was sitting I could see they uh, they half-assed the warding sigils. No holy oil, but they had some sort of bastardized Devil’s trap with your name written in Enochian— I didn’t want you to get hurt— cause of me.” _Again._

“You could have _died_ Dean.”

The hunter shrugs. “I didn’t.”

“Next time, Call.” Cas commands, sounding more like his Angelic self, the air shivers around him. “Sam said they told you that they had Claire.” Cas says, filling the silence.

“Yeah.” He scratches his head with his unharmed hand, trying to flatten the sleepy cowlicks he saw in his reflection. “These guys, they uh, they showed up at _Bobby’s—_ my place, um, said they’d hurt her if I didn’t come. I couldn’t—” He’s not good at this, not good at being anything less than a cocky bastard retelling a hunting story with false bravado. It feels brittle in the half-light of the kitchen. Cas deserves honesty.

“ _Wouldn’t_ let them do that to her.” He finally gets out. “Or you.” He adds, already reaching across the table, his fingers barely brush the back of Castiel’s knuckles before he catches himself; jerks his hand backward.

Cas stares at the place where Dean touched.

The cast on Dean’s arm itches, his head is pounding.

“I really fucked everything up didn’t I?” He feels so grubby and human, rambling like a lovesick fool next to a marble statue made of grace and goodness.

_An Angel of the Lord does not belong here. With me._

“Which part?” Cas asks, there’s an almost familiar fondness in his voice.

It’s still raining.

He’s not looking at Dean, instead, watching the wind whipping across the lake, stirring the wind chimes hanging off the porch.

Dean can remember the moment he explained to the angel that wind chimes serve no purpose other than to make people smile on days with bad weather. It’s what Bobby had told him years ago, he’d been about 8 at the time, and shocked that anyone would keep something around that didn’t kill, or feed a person.

Cas, on the other hand, had gotten the strangest look on his face, like he was trying to figure out how to work his cheeks and eyes. But he’d nodded, thanked Dean and walked outside to stare enraptured by the sound and motion. Dean watched as the odd Angel stood in the rain and smiled at the wind chimes. It was the first time Dean saw him smile.

He wonders if Cas remembers.

“All of it.” He answers softly, and there’s a level of relief in being able to admit he’s wrong. “But mostly what happened before Christmas. I’m _so_ sorry Cas. I’m… just sorry.”

Cas still hasn’t looked over, there’s steam rising from his mug,

Dean takes a breath and goes on. “It wasn’t a lie. None of it. The uh, the dinner and the clothes and the…I wanted it, I wanted _you._ ” He blushes but he isn’t sure why, there’s an intimacy to it that makes him want to run. He grips the edge of his chair with his free hand,

“But—that wasn’t—not just for like— you know— sex— um, that doesn’t excuse how I… I treated you. How I’ve always… treated you… But, I lied to you and I, Cas I need you to understand how sorry I am. For being selfish... for how angry I was, how I handled all of it.”

He struggles with the words, they burn and release like little burning stars forcing their way up his throat, out of his chest. “I’ve um. I’ve never been good at— you know I’ve always— it was always me and Sam and dad, and Dad, he uh told me day one, after mom’s funeral— he uh, he sat me down in the car and said that uh, that my job was to either, keep Sammy safe or kill him if he turned into a monster.” His voice lowers into a sob, as everything comes out. “I couldn’t ever— I _loved_ Sam. I _raised_ Sam, and I couldn’t ever—trust, him. Not completely. Even though I knew he loved me… he didn’t understand.”

He looks over at Cas who’s gazing at him, “So I guess, I mean. I’ve been… Um… I’ve been talking to someone about stuff. And going to, uh, to AA. I obviously had to switch some stuff around, cause like, no one’s a therapist for the guy who kills god—Cause that’s a one way trip to a rubber rooms and shit like that. But like—“ He swallows.

“What I’m trying to say is I _always_ knew the only reason I was alive down here was to protect people and kills what needs killing. _That’s it_. But I— I need people too. And you— you’re one of those people. You’re the most important—“

He flushes; carried on by the momentum. He thinks distantly that his therapist would be proud.

“I— I got so scared of people leavin’ or dying, or getting sick of _me,_ so when I got you back, I uh tried to force it, tried to make it happen— I uh, tried to be better I guess, to make up for everything I didn’t do before, but I didn’t give you the choice to leave, tried to control you. I did it to Sam too, with that uh— girl, after Purgatory, and Lisa and Ben and... well I fucked all of that up too— I’m just, I’m _so_ sorry.” He’s lost track of what he’s trying to say, the emotion sticks in his throat, he’s got tears in his eyes, he wonders where Cas got the pain meds he is definitely on and if somehow a side affect is stupid rambling paragraphs of poorly thought out truth.

“I forgive you Dean.”

“ _Oh_ ,” It’s too much, too easy. If there’s anything Dean knows about his life, if it’s easy it’s going to hurt. “Okay, good.”

 _This is it_ , the moment where Cas flits back to heaven: _business concluded._

His chest is heavy with fear and disappointment, He can do this, without abuse or anger. Cas deserves better than that. Dean said what he needed to say.

_Forgive and forget right?_

Dean pushes laboriously to his feet before the panic can set in, impulsively searching for something to eat, to distract.

He reaches up for bowls realizing too late that they’re stacked too high to easily get to with a fucked up arm. Now he’s pissed at his past self for becoming such an organized asshole in the past year, and he’s too scared to turn around and confirm the kitchen is empty behind him. So he just stands, breathing, and it hurts, everything fucking hurts.

No matter what his therapist says, closure’s a bitch.

Cas reaches around, grabbing a bowl off the top with ease, Dean’s flustered with Cas close and warm against his side, offering the white porcelain with kindness.

"I missed you." He says to the air above the sink.

He can’t help it really, he never thought he’d see Cas again and he’s never been so good at impulse control. He takes the bowl from Cas; sets it gently on the counter, bringing Cas’ open palm to his lips gently, just once, holds it there.

The Angel freezes, his profile severe, and he’s just _so_ beautiful, Dean can’t help it, it just bursts out of his throat and chest,

 _“_ I love you _, so much.”_ He whispers into Cas’ skin, his heart pounds with the blinding clarity of it. He looks up, impulsiveness driving, and moves to kiss him, this time going for the lips, clumsy; his balance is shit, he fumbles forward mostly brushing the Angel’s chin and cheek.

It breaks the magic of the moment. He’s immediately embarrassed,

_Needy, messy, sloppy._

“I’m sorry.” He says, stumbling sideways, strategy screaming flee to a safe place and regroup.

Cas steps close, pushing into his space, his knees on either side of Dean’s, hands firm at his waist, steadying, stilling the franticness of his movement.

His head tilts, his eyes shine.

“Say it again.”

“I’m sorry.” Dean’s brain is only just now catching up with the fact that he’s said all of those words out loud in front of god and everybody, he’s staring hard at Cas’ throat.

Cas shakes his head, forcing his way into Dean’s embarrassed eye line.

“I _am_ sorry though.” Dean mumbles.

“No.” Cas is firm, his hair and head haloed by the moon through the kitchen windows.

He’s too beautiful for this simple space. The Angel belongs in a high place, exalted, worshipped, adored; not in this tiny kitchen in Kansas listening to the too-late confessions of a broken man.

His hands slip up to surround Dean’s face, holding it like some precious and beautiful thing and he shakes his head once again.

Oh. Dean thinks, _Oh._

“Say it again.” He asks. “Please Dean.”

“I… I love you Cas.”

Dean breathes, “You have me. Always have, I think.”

Cas’ fingers play with his hair, touching where it’s grown in front of his eyes and around his ears.

“You hair is long.” He states with wonder, thumb and forefinger tugging gently in his faraway Cas way, he tips Dean’s face down to kiss him, this time deeply, with intent obvious and for the first time with such freedom.

Kissing Cas before was incredible, but kissing an angel? _Fuck._ It's like taking a hit of Grace straight to the teeth, and _how in the hell is he supposed to be able to kiss anyone else after that?_

Then the less startling realization, He's _not going to be kissing anyone else is he?_

“Do you hate it?” Deans asks (not) breathlessly, when they part, Cas’ breath gently brushing his lips. His tongue darting out to caress and nip distractingly. “My hair?”

“I like _you_.” Cas answers guiding Dean’s face close to his, then thoughtfully, “I don’t think I will take another vessel.” He kisses dean’s eyelids and cheekbones and feels him shiver under his lips. “I think I would like to grow old in this one.”

“With me?” Dean guesses, Cas not stopped touching him, his hands are heavy across any skin he can reach, Dean hopes he never stops.

“You built a house for me.” Cas muses. “When we “accidentally” watched _The Notebook,_ you said it was a highly romantic gesture.”

Dean breaks the kiss, a small brush of color high on his cheekbones

“ _You_ kept the mixtape.” He says with near accusation.

Cas hums in agreement, crowding him further, lifting Dean up and onto the counter with ease and fuck, nobody’s _ever_ done that before.

“I wondered, when you gave it to me, if it was a gesture of affection.”

Dean pulls back slightly, surprised. “Why didn’t you ask?”

“It wasn’t the right timing, another instance where I was unsure what was allowed, At the time it was enough: You thought of me enough to make it. My first gift from someone cherished.”

_Cherished. Who the fuck uses words like cherished? He’s gone. There’s no recovering._

“Sorry it took me 10 years.” Dean says sheepishly. “I’d never had a friend before.” He snorts. “I’d never been in love before either, _shit_ —”

Cas laughs and it’s music.

He takes Dean’s weight in his arms and they’re in Dean’s bedroom.

“I’d be pissed at you— For warping us— But I was also kinda worried about getting back up the stairs.”

“You need to sleep.”

“All I need is four hours you know that; I’ll be right as rain.” Regardless, Dean collapses onto the bed. “You’ll be here when I wake up though right? No take backs? I _will_ make you pinky promise if I have to.” He’s doing his best to sound joking. It feels weird, the lightness, the lack of world-ending gravitas. Dean wonders if this is what happy feels like. Goofy and sincere and guiltless, and so much smiling.

“A serious agreement.” Cas retorts. “But yes,” He seizes Dean’s hand, locking their pinkies and smiles. Then places his fingers on Dean’s forehead.

* * *

**October 18**

“Have you two kissed and made up?”

“ _Balthazar._ ”

The angel grins, and throws his hands up. “Well pardon me _Castiel_ for having your very best interests at heart.” He slides onto the barstool and looks around the house. “Nice place, definitely an upgrade from the roach infested _shack_ they used to live in, and that _Bunker_ — nearly a palace in comparison— no liquor though. Wasn’t your boy a bit of lush back in the day?“

Cas frowns, still trying to text Erin back, her conversational dots keep appearing, so he pauses, and then she pauses, she keeps sending moving pictures in response and she has many questions about Dean and his welfare.

Somehow she had known instantly that it was Castiel she was messaging. He is nearly convinced that she has some latent genes of foresight.

He cocks his head. “When did you go to the bunker?”

“Listen _brother_ , did you really think that our dear Jack was just going to let you, _you,_ drop off the radar without sending a couple recon legions to keep an eye on you? I was merely the complimentary demon killing color guard.”

“I would have noticed legions. I _asked_ for you.”

Balthazar laughs, he snaps his fingers and a glass of wine appears. “You’re right— just a few favorites, had to talk Gabriel out of coming down to visit the larger brother— Sam was it? I got the distinct impression that he was _very_ disappointed about Miss Leahy. What is it about Winchesters that have Archangels going mad— must have a taste when I get a chan—“ He grins at the look Cas shoots him.

“Teasing, teasing. Let me have my fun, I wouldn’t dare play with your toys without permission.” He sighs dramatically. “Upstairs it’s all _balance this and balance that,_ All very tame now that we have such a kind and interested deity that apparently, _everyone,_ including the Queen of the Damned _herself_ has a minor crush on.” He takes a lingering drink of his wine and sighs. “I have nothing poor to say about your son, Castiel don’t get prickly on me. You did well. He’s a good one.”

Balthazar waits only a moment.

“Have you decided about your vessel? I can see that it’s getting worse. You pushed too hard in the Empty _and_ with the rescue of Dean, I’m surprised it held together with all of your—“ He gestures vaguely around his head with a bored grandiose. “I’d be furious with you, if you hadn’t been rescuing most of heaven and hell and the love of your life I suppose.”

“I have.”

“Ah, But _first_ , my unsolicited advice, take it or take it: You can continue trying to make up for your decisions in the past, take a new vessel, have everyone whom you _killed_ talk about you behind your back for a few decades _or,_ you can march your scrawny ass upstairs and ravish your foolish young paramour and let yourself have a few mostly human decades on earth before dancing up to heaven together and experiencing a hero’s welcome.” He sighs. “Angels are bastards and grudge holders all, but if you give them a bit to cool and some time with your bouncing baby boy,” He winks. “They’ll come around, and you’ll get to have your bit of grimy human happiness.” His nose wrinkles on the last few words.

“You said humans are disgusting mud monkeys—”

“Feels like a Uriel statement. But, I’ll stand by it.” Balthazar agrees. “ _However_ that human upstairs, the stubborn redneck you’ve spent twelve years protecting, and the last three days watching over without leaving his room: _he_ gave you something that changed you, and you’ve spent the better part of that time _yearning.”_ He laughs. _“_ You— Castiel, our village weirdo, _yearning_.”

“He loves me.“ Castiel says, ducking his head shyly, a gesture softened by Balthazar knowing him for many years. _"Weirdo?"_

Balthazar chuckles. “Of course he does, bloody fool, I _do_ believe you’re the only one who thought that might be in question.”

* * *

There is something to be said for the release of extended tension.

Dean wakes and finds Cas looking at him with warm eyes, a blue so poignant it makes the sky seem faded.

For the first time, Cas is soft around the edges; mussed, his hair curling gently over his forehead. He hasn’t slept, he doesn’t sleep, watching over Dean. He smiles faintly, a twitch of the lips, the expression deepening the wrinkles around the Angel’s eyes.

_I love him._

Dean thinks, and he realizes he could say it out loud and there would be no shame in it,

“Hi.” He says hoarsely, poetry was never really his forte. “You’re back.”

Cas chuckles, and nods, smile deepens, widens, to Dean it’s breathtaking. “I _did_ pinky promise.” He says, voice all serious.

“Where did you go?”

“Heaven.” He says simply, like it’s an everyday occurrence, like Dean doesn’t have an Angel in his room, sitting and adoring him for no reason other than he wants to, wants _him_. “They wished a report on Belphegor.”

“Oh.” It isn’t enough, but he isn’t sure what to say.

_How do you tell someone that in this moment you would steal the stars from the sky if they wanted them?_

Dean isn’t sure he’s ever really experienced something this intense, he feels dizzy.

“Are you going to stay, Angel?” He asks, dropping his eyes against his will, and the pinch of guilt is there and fresh. He can’t ask that of Cas, he won’t.

“Of course,” He replies without hesitation. “I will be different. There is a process, it will allow me to experience most things in your way. But not wholly human.” He reaches out and places a gentle hand on Dean’s chin, lifting Dean’s eyes, and they spark with something. “How else would I keep you safe?”

“Fallin for me again?” Dean manages weakly; his palms are sweaty and his heart is doing strange things in his chest.

“Every time.” Cas affirms, as if he isn’t saying that he loves him, chooses him, delights in him, as if it isn’t earth-shattering information and the cheesiest pick up line he’s ever heard.

Dean’s ears turn red.

Silence slips in, comfortable and warm. Cas, releases his face, comes and sits on the edge of Dean’s bed. He’s wearing Dean’s clothes again, the t-shirt is tight across his chest.

“You got jacked.” Dean grumbles, “Could probably beat the shit out of me, ‘specially now that I’m all gimpy.” He flails dramatically, dropping his head back on the pillow.

Cas watches his dramatics with amusement, shrugging, “I have always been able to beat the ‘shit out of you’ _other_ than my brief period as a human. I am an Angel.”

“Yeah,” Dean squirms, still grumpy. “But fresh from heaven you looked like you hadn’t eaten in a couple days— scrawny blue-eyed thing. Cute as hell though, with your crazy hair and your big boy coat.”

A faint frown, “You liked my vessel _then_?” A deeper frown. “Big boy coat?”

_“Yup.”_

_“_ You never said...”

“Dumb of ass. Right? Plus I was having a lot of trouble rationalizing that I was more into the concept of…guys and you being the one that—” He gestures, with middle school vulgarity, with Dean-centric cheekiness, and then smiles brightly when he realizes that both of his arms are functioning. “You fixed me.” His whole face lights up, taking an experimental swing. “Look at that.”

Cas watches him fondly. “I spoke with Rowena about your wounds while you slept. She was able to offer suggestions, she says ‘Samuel owes her;’”

“I’m sure Sammy loves that.” He’s still distracted, shadowboxing, he doesn’t notice the Angel stiffen.

“Dean. If _anyone_ takes you again. You _will_ pray and ask me to come.” Cas’ voice is serious enough to pull the hunter from his distraction. Cas isn’t asking, but his eyes are grave and pleading.

The hunter winks, combatting his physical response to the Angel’s tone. “Don’t like people marking up your man?”

“ _Dean.”_

“Alright, alright,” He puts a hand on Cas’ knee, wiggles his hand and grins. “You gotta stop worrying about me.”

The Angel, startles him, carefully sliding his knee up and over to straddle Dean,

“Promise me.” He repeats slowly, his large hands slip into the back of Dean’s long hair and tug very gently. Dean shivers, tilting his head back, instinctively exposing his neck. The predator in him acknowledges that he is not the most dangerous being in the room.

They stare, as they have since the beginning.

“—Yeah… sure.”

Dean tilts his head away, attempting to regain control in this situation; rolls his eyes at Cas’ still serious expression. “ _I promise_ , if anyone tries to hurt me, I’ll pray to my hot Seraph boyfriend to rescue m—“

The angel cuts him off, exploding forward in a flurry of motion and energy; Dean is kissed, savored, devoured. He can’t help but arch up into the feeling of Cas’ tongue sliding against his, and chapped lips on his own.

He is barely able to keep up with the punishing pace the Angel sets— Dean’s hands slide up the Angel’s ribs. A slight tug to the roots of Dean’s hair and he moans, hands freezing, and Cas is kissing deeper, urgent and demanding.

Dean’s lips are red and swollen when Cas pulls back, remembering air is typically necessary for humans. _His_ human looks sufficiently dazed, mouth still slightly parted, tongue sneaking out to swipe along the still slick bottom lip, eyes hooded.

Cas makes a noise low in his throat and tries to gain control of his own desire.

“What’s got your motor all revved?” Dean asks cheekily, settling his hands to a safer space, around Cas’ thick hips, digging into the strength of them. “Not at all complaining by the way—“

“You said you were mine.” Cas’ voice has somehow gotten deeper, in between words he’s pulled Dean’s sleep shirt aside, bending forward to leave very distinctive marks on the skin it normally hides. “You also said I was your boyfriend. I found it… distracting.”

“Aren’t I? Your boyfriend?” And his grin is back, “I’m pretty sure we’re a little past friends with benefits— though saying _boyfriend_ feels a little… high school. Not sure if I ever had a girlfriend _either_ —“

Cas finds himself flipped onto his back, feels the familiar rush of watching Dean’s skill as a hunter repurposed into other parts of his life.

Dean’s off the bed, standing before him, pulling his loose pajama pants down and off in a single smooth move. His fingers are confident, deft, sure, as he undoes Cas’ belt, slipping it off, Cas leans back on his elbows and watches.

Dean’s brain thuds with several sudden realizations: Cas has never been with someone who wants _him._

He hooks into Cas’ belt loops, pulls them from his hips.

Cas is still wearing Dean’s shirt.

Dean’s reaches for it, unwilling to let this moment pass, wanting to see all of the Angel.

Cas beats him to the movement; pulls it from his body,

Dean blows a long breath out between his lips and does nothing to hide the sheer desire in his face.

“ _Damn_ Cas.”

There is no urgency in Dean’s movements, nearly teasing, as he kneels in front of the Angel, looking up, biting his lip, Cas’ eyes glitter in the sunlight. The storm has passed in the night giving way to cloudless midwestern brightness.

Dean’s touch and lips stop at Cas’ belly, tongue darting out to savor the taste of the skin around his stupidly distracting hip bones, he pulls the boxers from Cas’ body. His warm palm instantly circles the angel’s length, slowly wringing the light delicious noises out of his lover.

It’s not the first time he’s done this: mind filling with old memories of truck stops and bar alleys when John wouldn’t come home on time and the cash he left ran low. Of warm breath that smelled like cheap beer and felt like shame. Of faded bills dropped on the pavement with a snicker and the sound of a zipper.

His hand stutters in its movement. Cas’ hand slips up to cup Dean’s cheek. Somehow he knows, he feels the memories or at least the emotions attached to them. But there’s no judgement in his eyes, only love, understanding.

Dean shivers; their profound bond, thrums intense with mutual desire; his eyes are heavy lidded with greed as his perfect lips part for Cas’ thumb.

The world is suddenly very small; in a single breath they two are contained in the dust motes lazily dancing across Dean’s bedroom. The hunter bows his head,

“ _Dean._ ”

Dean worships; lips lightly grazing the underside of Cas’ cock.

“Tell me what you need.” Dean’s says from his knees, penitent of his own free will. Unbowed in his devotion.

Before, There was sex, and it was raw, intense and mind blowing but never anything more than that, but now their bond is blown wide with the intensity of what they’re feeling. It’s multiplied and refracted between them.

Cas pulls his head forward, sliding his cock deep into the soft warm heat, feeling the hunter’s throat tighten and adjust.

A strangled gasp comes out of the Angel’s lips, Dean is smiling even with his mouth full of Cas, humming happily while the Angel’s grip tightens, and he allows the Cas to guide his mouth back and forth. Gagging softly, the tip rubs the back of his throat; Cas rotates his hips in small motions, bringing tears to Dean’s eyes.

In their time before, Cas was a man dying of thirst surrounded by ocean that wouldn’t satisfy, and now, he could subsist on the sounds spilling from Dean Winchester.

He’s pressing in deeper, fucking Dean’s lips sloppy; the hunter resists the urge to close his eyes, tears leaking, but he keeps eye contact as Cas’ palm cups the side of his face.

Not gentle, but kind.

“ _Dean_.” Cas moans, it becomes a repeated anthem of his name over and over as the Angel watches the hunter take him in over and over, and teasing touches brings him closer and closer to ecstasy.

There is reverence in the eyes of angels, and sin in this act of man.

Cas hisses as he spills inside Dean’s throat, his grip tight on the back of Dean’s neck. Before the hunter pulls back completely he nips forward, cleaning the angel briefly with a brazen curl of his tongue.

Dean’s hand slides shakily up to Cas’ knee, and he laughs, clears his throat, wipes his eyes.

“Well _that_ was fuckin’ hot.” He says, pressing a kiss to Cas' bare thigh, the angel looks sex hazy and relaxed. He allows Dean to climb up, straddle him and kiss him, tasting himself on the other’s tongue.

“This is not just sex to me.”

Dean says, dipping his head to press kisses up Cas’ neck, hands on either side of the angel’s face.

“I mean it’s great, like super awesome. But, yeah, I want you to know that.” He rests his forehead against the other, thumbs rubbing gentle crescents across his cheekbones “I love you, and I want you.” It’s still a strangled gasp, each syllable tied to his heart. “Just. You.”

Cas’ blue eyes go wide.

“I am Castiel,” He whispers against Dean’s lips, awkward and angelic. “Fallen angel, lover of Dean Winchester, the righteous man.”

“Are you praying at me Castiel?” Dean asks pulling back, flustered by the words, still out of breath. “Or are you just saying sexy things so we can go for round two?”

To Dean’s surprise, Cas kisses Dean’s nose, rolling Dean onto his back, watching intensely at the way the Hunter places his feet flat on the bed, widening his legs and smiling, eyes filled with laughter, cock still hard and wanting between his legs.

Cas slides his palms from Dean’s knees up to where the hunter’s legs thicken, he pushes his legs wider, Dean winces at the stretch, watching the Angel, whose thumbs have dropped downward to Dean’s ass. Spreading his cheeks and staring intently at his pucker, Dean blushes, uncomfortable with this decidedly physical vulnerability.

He draws Dean to the edge of the bed, lifting the hunter’s knees over his shoulders, and holds him open, watching him clench on nothing.

Dean shivers, staying silent, he can see in the change in the Angel’s eyes, the possessive glint of a predator.

Cas tilts his head and leans forward to run his tongue along the rim, curiously. His head tilts at the unfamiliar taste only for a moment before diving back in.

Dean writhes, and moans, hands tangled in the sheets above his head, Cas angles his head to kiss and lick deeper. Getting the hang of it, his arms tighten, holding Dean in place as he delves deeper, face now slick with spit, kissing in and around Dean’s pucker, his hand grips tight enough to bruise as he holds Dean open, a finger sliding to rub along his taint, and fondle his balls.

“Cas— _please_.”

Cas’ eyes flit up, he pauses in his movement, Dean pants open mouthed, eyes blown so wide there’s barely any green.

“I need you to— in, _please._ “ Dean’s hands move to touch himself, stuttering to a stop when Cas’ eyebrow arches. Cas presses a gentle kiss to the pucker, sliding his finger into place, there’s a burn at the stretch, in and out it moves, before looking at Dean.

“No.” He says firmly. “Let me.”

Another finger added, scissoring and stretching. Dean’s legs pushes down on Cas’ shoulders, minutes tick by, lost in the sensation of Cas eating him alive.

Three fingers. He whines when Cas pulls them free, watching the way his rim clenches down on nothing, crawling up Dean’s body to kiss him deeply. His own cock again, heavy and thick between Dean’s thighs, Dean instinctively wraps his legs around Cas and grins slightly, needy and gasping.

“I would like to spend a life with you, Dean Winchester,” Cas continues, his elegy sincere, soft, reverent. “I will always answer your prayers, I will protect you with my physical form, and I will love you, and you alone, from this day forward until the end of my days.”

The air shivers, Dean’s ribs ache, his soul feels like it’s reaching out all golden light.

Dean feels the weight of his words, sees the devotion in Cas’ eyes as he takes in the delicious, blasphemous sight of his human lover in their bed, bathed in sunlight spread and wanting below him.

“Amen.” Cas says, pushing into Dean, completing him. Dean’s existence is only the feeling of being split apart by the Angel, of being filled, of the words he promised.

Dean finds his eyes, Out and in, breath and flesh, as one.

_“Amen.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading to the end. As ever I enjoyed it more than anyone.
> 
> So here's the deal. Of course they love each other, but Dean needed to find value in not living in fear of the future and Cas needed to forgive himself and stop living in the regret of the past.
> 
> I'm still out here living and editing cause it's still a bit wobbly in bits.
> 
> I’ve got a few scenes still rolling around in my head. Might post them if you’re interested
> 
> EDIT: they're here: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2199549
> 
> Anyway. Love you all :) your comments genuinely give me joy
> 
> PS: the coffee/DIY bike place exists, look up brothermoto in Atlanta


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